For Hire
by 0-Kelly-0
Summary: What starts out as a routine assassination for Matt quickly spirals into a mess of conspiracy, secrets, and passion. With his life at stake, Matt has to choose which side to play for when there is no good guy. Matt/Mello AU
1. Prologue: Zero Tolerance

_But there's got to be an opening  
__Somewhere here in front of me  
__Through this maze of ugliness and greed  
_-One Headlight by The Wallflowers

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I'm passed around like a cheap whore. Word of mouth gets around that 'this one is good' and I end up with a new job and some crisp bills in my wallet. I have tight lips and a steady hand, so I guess that's what makes me so good in this business. Like a cheap whore I spread disease, in my own way. Like STDs I can be annoying, crippling, or lethal. Everything depends on the request of my newest boss. I can be wielded like a weapon or an asset, depending on your preference. I imagine what my ad in the classifieds would look like. I bet it would read something like:

For Hire: Individual with knowledge of computers, electronics and guns. Lacking moral compass and interpersonal skills. Payment dependent on job.

I'm damn proud of that résumé, thank you very much. I don't really have references though, client confidentiality and all that. Ask about half of the people working in illegal dealings and they'll say how great I am. (The other half pretty much hates me, for reasons that I hope are obvious.)

I chew on the end of my cigarette, only half listening to the man in front of me. I'm in an abandoned restaurant. The sign on the front reads 'Sal's Pizzeria,' although one of the i's in Pizzeria have fallen off. The windows are boarded and I've seen at least one rat scurrying along by the floorboards. I exhale smoke, leaning forward.

I'm talking to John Harrington, and if you think that's his real name then you're pretty much a dumbass. I don't use my real name, why would anyone else?

We've taken up residence in one of the booths, striped white and red vinyl. I don't question his choice of meeting place; I've definitely been in worse. The place is dingy and the light is dim at best, but we're out of the way of prying eyes.

John Harrington is an Associate, something I know without him telling me. His skin is light, and I know that for something like this the Family wouldn't send one of their own. (Even with my impeccable record, no one trusts anyone else in a business like this.) He's a little too chatty for my taste; I really just want to get on with the job.

"Give me the picture," I say shortly, and he pulls a picture out of the bag at his side and lays it on the table in front of me. I pick it up, studying the face. "His relation?"

"Consigliere." John Harrington supplies immediately. "His name—"

"No names." I interrupt.

"What should I call him then?" He asks, seeming uncomfortable. Good, he should be uncomfortable.

"Call him 'Eighty-six'." I say, feeling witty.

"You've killed eighty-six men?" He asks stupidly, and I sigh, closing my eyes behind orange lenses. Luckily John Harrington isn't a _complete_ imbecile, because he's quick to move on. He pulls out a second picture and places it on the table in front of me. "His boss."

"Rod Ross." I pull the name from memory. His bald head and facial hair are a dead giveaway to his identity. I glance to the other picture, my target. "Let me guess, this one is the brains behind the operation? I always thought Rod was just a brawny idiot."

"I'm not at liberty to say."

I simply nod, unsurprised. "Have you set up a location where I can take him down?"

"We'll be sponsoring you to attend the Weapons Expo."

I raise an eyebrow. The Weapons Expo is well-known in the crime syndicate as the place to be for the best and newest weapons. It's one of the rare places where the Families are able to be in the same place and not…well, kill each other. It's like an unwritten rule: Violence at the Weapons Expo is strictly prohibited. It's a very exclusive event; someone like me wouldn't even know where it's being held. "That's kind of dangerous, don't you think? Unless you want me to start a war." Or if he wants me to get killed myself, which goes unspoken.

"I'm sure you'll be able to take care of it discreetly." John Harrington says lightly.

"I usually only require a fractional payment up front, but you're asking me to kill a Consigliere in a very public place. I'll need half the payment now."

John Harrington pulls a white envelope from his bag and hands it over. I tear it open and finger through the stack of hundreds. "This will do. One more thing," John Harrington pauses in gathering his things. "Who am I working for?"

He smiled a bit. "We'll contact you soon with information on the Expo. Keep in mind that until you are successful, that money belongs to the Boss. Don't do anything stupid."

I'm silent, watching John Harrington stand and leave. I drag a gloved finger through the grime on the tabletop in front of me, drawing idle patterns. I lift my other hand and look down into cerulean blue eyes set in a young face with unusually long blonde hair. I smear my dirty thumb across his unnamed face, leaving it besmirched. "See you soon Eighty-Six." I murmur, standing from the booth and exiting the abandoned restaurant through the back door.

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_AN: Welcome to the prologue of my newest project! If you've read Tinted Gold then you've probably noticed the different tone and subject matter of For Hire. I am writing Matt very differently here, and I'm interested to hear what you guys think of him. This story is an alternate universe, so I have much more freedom to do what I want with the characters. I'm so excited for this story! Your reviews really make a difference on how fast I update, and might even change the direction of the story depending on what people say about it! Chapter 1 will be posted before you know it; this prologue is just a little taste of what's to come!_

_I also wanted to note that if you are unfamiliar with the structure of the Mafia, there is a great article on Wikipedia under American Mafia. It would take too long to explain here, but I will say that the Consiglere is the adviser and right-hand-man to the mob boss._

_Thank you for reading and reviewing!_


	2. Attempt One

_Warnings for this chapter: Language, mild violence, mild gore, and dark themes. Please mind the M rating and enjoy._

* * *

_All I know  
Time is a valuable thing  
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings  
Watch it count down to the end of the day  
The clock ticks life away  
It's so unreal  
_-In The End by Linkin Park

* * *

A certain cold detachment is required for the type of work I do. I don't claim to have become completely numb to the world around me, but I do take a lot of things at face value. A body—a human's body—is flesh, muscle, bone, tendon, ligament, various organs and liquids…separately these things mean very little, even nothing. I don't find myself being attached to things like bone and flesh. (Does anyone?) It is our sense of humanity that makes killing difficult. It's the light behind the eyes set in that flesh that provokes a feeling of sympathy in most people, compassion, and, as I said, humanity. Basic morals such as these are instilled in us as human beings. You could say that these are what keep society functioning smoothly. If everyone went around killing everyone else, nothing productive would ever get done and the society would fail. So most people feel no desire to take another's life. They are even repulsed by the idea, which seems natural enough.

But what makes people so special? Maybe it's that light in their eyes, but you could say that animals have that too. No, for whatever reason, humans have evolved to a point where they blindly care for one another. A stranger could die and the surviving who never knew them may feel sad. This never fails to baffle me. Of course there are exceptions to every rule, and I guess you could say I am one of those exceptions. I don't hate everyone, but I don't care for anyone either. Don't let that fool you into thinking I'm unfeeling though, I just do work that most people wouldn't want to. Most people don't even want to think about what I do; it horrifies them. It goes against their very nature to consider it okay. I'm not condoning or encouraging what I do. It is my job, and I really feel no regret for it. I work to put food on my table. I could do other things, sure, but I don't feel the need. Unlike most of mankind, I don't find what I do to be repulsive. Some think it's a sickness, my lack of humanity, but I think that I'm just different than normal people. Because I don't agree with the beliefs of the majority, does that make me wrong? A bad person? _Crazy_? Many would say yes.

I'll tell you about the experience—watching one die, that is—because most have not been put in that position. It's very simple, dying. I don't think many people realize that eventually they will die, regardless of interference like what I pose. There is a difference between knowing you are mortal and looking death in the face while saying, "I understand and accept." Funny, I don't think I've met anyone who has really reached the 'accept' part. If they say they have, they're lying. Fear is overpowering, and the unknown paralyzing.

I guess I'm getting off track; I was going to tell you about dying, wasn't it? I don't claim to be an expert on the subject, but I can tell you the basic things I have observed. Usually when I am involved there is pain, so while the body is writhing and convulsing, the eyes scream for mercy and freedom. Being trapped inside a dying body must be Hell for the Soul. The light in their eyes burns and flickers like a candle in the wind, struggling to keep its hold. Then, snuffed. Simple. The body goes limp—later it becomes stiff—and there is nothing left. People who mourn over the dead body of their loved ones clearly don't understand that the body is nothing. The body can be cut, burned, ruined, but that body is not their loved one. Once the Soul has abandoned it, the body is nothing.

You could say I am a reaper of death. I don't _cause_ death; not really, I just drastically speed up the inevitable process. Do you understand now? I want you to see me as I am. Judge me if you must, but my intentions are of the purest kind. And even so, if I didn't do my job, someone else would do it for me. Don't fool yourself into thinking about some false justice that will be served; there is no such thing. Evil outweighs good in the world. But I don't want to force you into thinking I am good or evil—you can decide that for yourself. (It's not like I really care what you think anyways.)

So as John Harrington had promised, I am contacted with the date and time of the Expo. My alias will appear on the list of those who will be admitted to the event. It would be a lie to say I'm excited. Are you excited to go to your office job every day? That is how I regard my work; another chore that just needs to get done. The adrenaline before a kill has long since faded. I will be receiving another black mark on my Soul tonight; two weeks have passed since my initial meeting with John Harrington, which is more than enough time to prepare for what I'm about to do. I'm going to extinguish another light tonight, stomp out that candle before it has a chance to burn through the wick and melt the wax. I think it's a favor, in many ways; my target will be immortalized at this age, his prime. To live is to suffer and now he will have peace. And I will have money in my wallet. Isn't that a win for everyone?

I don't dress up for the Expo, I don't see a need. I am, quite simply, a nobody. Even if I am noticed I will soon be forgotten. What I wear is irrelevant, so I pick what is comfortable. That turns out to be jeans, a solid black t-shirt and combat boots that lace up to my knees. I grab the backpack I'd packed for this day, slinging it over my shoulder and heading out. John Harrington didn't have the decency to offer me a ride, so I drive myself.

The sun is shining straight in my eyes when I arrive at the warehouse where the Expo is being held; it should be dark in a little over an hour. After I show my ID I'm allowed inside. There is some minimal fussing over my backpack, which is searched extensively. I don't protest; they don't find anything to confiscate. (Bombs and automatic weapons are prohibited inside, which is fine because I didn't bring any.) The security in this place is tight, and a quick glance around tells me that there are armed guards around every corner.

The warehouse looks bigger on the inside. Or maybe it just looks big because it is literally filled with people. Booths are set up throughout the place, creating walkways. It reminds me of a seriously fucked up craft fair—because that's essentially what it is. Inventors and arms dealers all get together once a year and display their weaponry. Anyone who thinks a mass selling of illegal weapons would be too obvious clearly doesn't realize how corrupt the world is.

My plan is simple and should be effective. I didn't bring a gun because it should be easy enough to purchase one. Better yet, if the opportunity presents, I could lift one. First though, I need to locate my target and decide the best—and safest—area in this place to set up.

I start walking straight, catching bits of conversations as I pass by booths.

"—start another war with this 'ere, I can sell you all the fuel you need—"

"—but that's all about to change. Those guys can be knocked right off their pedestals. Cocky bastards they are, those—"

"—the best price you'll get in this hemisphere, I can guarantee—"

"—try it out on that target there, just imagine your worst enemy's face right—"

I release a small sigh, looking around. At this rate I'll never find my target. I meander through the crowds, and for half an hour I pretend to be occupied with the sales pitches and overwhelming amounts of weaponry.

Then I see him.

When I first spot him in the crowd, it's his hair that draws my attention. He isn't facing me, but I feel it all the way down in my gut that it's him. Starling blonde locks fall down slick straight, the ends curled slightly under, caressing the shoulders of his jacket. I've stopped in the middle of the walkway, and I hear a few people grumble as they have to walk around me. My eyes remain on my target, taking in the rest of him. He's a small man, but I never would have noticed if he wasn't surrounded by taller people. He holds himself like he owns the world; his presence demands attention.

I am looking up and down his leather attire when he turns, and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes connect directly with mine, as if he'd felt my gaze. His face seemed to say, 'What are you looking at punk?' Sharp blue eyes narrow and I feel like he's looking right through me. Like he's seeing _me_, and alarm bells blare in my mind.

I duck my head, stepping easily back into the ebb and flow of walking crowds. My gaze remains on my feet, mind churning. I can't approach the target; contact is out of the question. Already I'd made a spectacle of myself and drawn his attention. I have to be more careful. If things go south, I could die tonight. There is a warehouse full of armed mobsters surrounding me; taking down one of their own isn't the best way to make friends.

My gaze travels up, towards the high ceiling. I need to get into the rafters. A sniper position is my best shot at this, so I just need to pick an effective gun to get the job done. I nearly jump out of my skin when a hand grasps my shoulder and whirls me around. Instinctively, my hand goes towards where my gun would normally rest at my hip but I stop halfway (it isn't there, anyways.) Blue eyes are staring intensely at me, full lips pressed into a thoughtful line. Like I'm some sort of puzzle.

I haven't been in this close proximity to a target in ages. My heart is pounding, adrenaline rushing through my veins. Can I kill him this close? I rack my brain; I haven't been put in this sort of position before. Despite myself, I'm finding the danger and challenge thrilling.

His lips part, eyes weary, a question—or maybe an accusation—poised and ready on the tip of his tongue. But I never get to hear it. A shot rings out, unnaturally close, and I watch as shock registers on his face. My target—_my_ target—was just shot in front of my eyes. He stumbles forward, half falling into me, and my knee-jerk reaction is to raise my arms up to catch him. My hand comes in contact with something wet at the base of his back, and my fingers brush cool metal close to the seeping blood.

I don't even think about it.

My hand closes around the butt of the gun tucked into the back of my target's pants, whipping it out. The safety clicks, and in a flash my arm is extended. The man holding the smoking gun has barely started to turn before I put a bullet between his eyes.

Chaos. People start yelling, the group surrounding us transforming into a frenzied mass in a matter of seconds. The dead bastard's brain matter paints the cement floor sickly red and black, the gun having slipped from his hand when he hit the ground.

I'm breathing heavily, my free hand flexing into the smooth leather of my target's jacket, trying to keep him from slipping down to the floor. I'm furious and confused. This was my job. If he dies, how can I get any credit for it? Sure, it makes my life easier, but at the same time I can't very well get paid if he is killed by someone else. This sucks. I was counting on that money to make rent.

All this while, thinking about my rent, I'm trying hard _not_ to think about those blue eyes staring at me as he was shot and the question on his lips.

Thankfully, I'm dragged from my thoughts by the large bald man I know as Rod Ross, who steps forward out of the writhing mass of chaos and starts to pull the blonde man off of me. He's saying, "Mello, Mello!" which I think is stupid, seeing as no one is going to calm down anytime soon; has demanding everyone be mellow ever been effective?

I look down at my hand, numb. It's covered with blood—in more ways than one. I just killed someone because they shot my target. What's wrong with me? It was an instinctive reaction, I guess, he could have shot me next. I was in danger. I was only protecting myself.

I've only killed one person before and not been paid for it. I guess this makes two.

I look down at my clothes; I'm clean, although a little wrinkled. The bullet hadn't gone all the way through, which surprises me because of the close range. But…there's a lot of stuff to stop a bullet in the torso. If it had gone through, it could have hit me upon exiting. We were standing close enough.

I look up from myself and my gaze is dragged to the ground where my target is reclined. His eyes are open, staring at me. A chill runs down my spine. His pale skin is paler, but he seems alert and coherent. He's talking to Rod, but I can't make out the words. I need to regroup; I don't give a shit if my boss wanted the target killed at the Expo. It's impossible, and I'm not going to risk my life to get it done here. (My rent will never get paid if I'm _dead_.)

I start to turn, my back straightening as I hear, "Hey you!" I pretend the owner of the voice isn't talking to me, and start to push my way through the crowd. Maybe, I think to myself, no one is going to call an ambulance and my target will just bleed out. That solves all sorts of problems. I can get other jobs, ones that aren't as dangerous. I prefer to give my targets the dignity of dying in their own home. Making a scene has never been my thing.

For the second time tonight a hand lands on my shoulder to stop me. I can't take it and whirl around, knocking the offending hand away. "Don't touch me!" I yell, probably louder than is necessary.

Rod Ross stands in front of me, surprise showing on his features. "What's your name?"

His question takes me off guard, but I swallow before managing what I hope is a lethal glare. "Why would you want to know?"

Rod doesn't seem to quite know what to make of me, so he hesitates. I can see the fat, slow gears churning in his head. Finally he responds, "You have a good shot."

"He was two feet in front of me." I say venomously. "A monkey could have shot him."

"Hm," His face has turned to a look of distaste. Whatever he was hoping to find in me, I guess he didn't find it. "We need to carry Mello outside to the car. Do you want to help?"

Oh, so the guy's name is Mello. That…no, it doesn't really make sense. My eyes narrow, studying this man before me. Why would he ask me, of all the people here, to help carry his Consigliere outside? They have a Family, I assume, so what's his motive?

My gaze flickers over Rod's shoulder, seeing 'Mello' sitting on the floor. Someone is pressing a towel to his back, and he swats away another person's offer of help. He looks unsteady just sitting there, but despite his pain—he is trying to cover it up, and doing a fairly convincing job at it—he still has a commanding way about him. On his deathbed, I bet he'd still be giving orders and scheming. No wonder someone—or rather, two people that I know of—want him dead.

My eyes settle on Rod once more, suspicion running like ice water down my spine. Mello asked him to talk to me, I'm sure of it. But the question is, why? Despite myself, I'm curious. What did this blonde, pretty-boy mobster see in me? All the various scenarios flash through my mind but none seem probable. Mello is a puzzle to me, just like I think I was to him, when he looked at me like he did with those icy blue eyes.

I'm shaken from my thoughts, realizing that Rod is waiting, impatiently, for me to answer. I bet he's expecting me to refuse—he wants me to. My lips curl into a slight smile, and I look into the Boss' face and say calmly, "I'd love to help."

If anything, this could give me ample opportunity to finish the job.

Rod doesn't have the level of intelligence to be properly suspicious; instead he just nods, seeming only mildly displeased. Consiglieres hold a considerable amount of power within the Families, but I've never seen one that has his Boss in the palm of his hand like this one. It's intriguing. Normally I wouldn't be interested, but something about this blonde _makes_ me interested. It's like I don't even have a choice. Our simple interaction—or lack of interaction—has sucked me in and forced me to wonder. This Mello controls, and I think he even controls my curiosity. Why had he approached me? What did he do to make everyone want him dead? _Who_ wants him dead? And who on earth did I shoot tonight?

I walk with Rod back to where the mystery man is, and his face is strained with irritation and pain. The man sitting behind him has a first aid kit open and laid out on the floor beside them. The Consigliere's shirt and jacket have been pushed up in the back while the man applies pressure to the wound with a sterile cotton square. I catch view of a few inches of pale skin, stretched over lean muscle and the subtle jut of bone that is the length of his spine. "No stretcher." His voice has a rough edge to it, and I realize belatedly that this is the first thing I've heard him say. It makes me shiver with an emotion I can't quite place. It's not fear, but it borders on it. His eyes settle on me, and unconsciously I straighten. I'm walking a fine line; part of me wants to respect and fear him, while the other part just kind of wants to kill him so I don't have to worry about what I'm feeling. This is dangerous.

"It's the safest way to get you to the car." The other man is saying. "Dr. Norton will be waiting for us."

"I'm fine to walk." His eyes are on me when he says it, and I wonder what kind of reaction he's expecting from me.

So I say what I'm thinking, which is, "That's a load of shit and everyone here knows it."

His lips curl into a slight smirk, seeming satisfied with my words. His eyes are dark. Everyone is holding their breath, and I guess that he has them all scared shitless. "You'll help me walk." Once again, he's looking for a reaction. His eyes flash with a manic look, and I have to keep myself from shuddering uncomfortably under that gaze. His comment causes everyone around to exchange confused glances; there are plenty of people here who he actually _knows_ who could help him.

"Sure," I reply slowly, carefully. "Just don't get shot again. I'm bad at first aid." I offer him my hand without making him ask; he doesn't seem like the type who likes to ask for help. The man behind him had taped the cloth in place over the wound while we were talking, and reluctantly he cleared Mello to go. The blonde grasps my wrist, my fingers curling around his in return, and I pull him up to his feet. His lips tighten into a thin line, but he doesn't make a sound. "You know you have a bullet in your back, right?" I ask, raising one eyebrow. Maybe he's delirious or something.

"No fuck, really?" He hisses. "Must have missed that."

"Don't be pissy with me; I'm not the one who shot you." I sneer, although realize that I could and should have been the one putting a bullet in him. This situation has suddenly become much more complex, and I don't know what to do about it just yet.

He scoffs. "Doesn't mean you're not irritating the hell out of me." I still don't get this guy. He says one thing and does another—he's still grasping my wrist, like that is the only thing keeping him upright. I expected him to have girly hands, but they're actually strong and a little rough.

He starts to take a step and I feel his legs buckle. For the second time I grab him around the middle. I'm about to yell out for some help, but already two other men—one is Rod—are there to help support the blonde man. I step back, trying to calm my pounding heart.

They take Mello by either arm, half leading, half carrying the now semi-conscious man towards the exit. I suddenly remember the man I'd shot, and my head snaps back to look at the ground where he'd fallen. The body is gone, but the red stains painted on the concrete tell the dark story of his death. I start as Rod's voice yells, "Hurry up!" I turn away from the haunted place, running to catch up with them.

No one said I couldn't have some fun before getting my work done. Consider this my lunch break.

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_AN: My goodness, it's been a while! I apologize for the (ridiculously long) delay in getting this chapter to you guys. I don't have much of an excuse, except I've been wrapping up high school and that has sucked up all my time. All your reviews on the prologue were so helpful and encouraging. I hope you guys haven't given up on me yet! Now that school is done, you can bet that updates will be regular. (How does once weekly sound?) Since tomorrow is my birthday, (no, really!) the best present in the world would be your feedback on this chapter. =) I have definitely gone in a new direction and this is an experiment for me. We'll see how it goes, eh? But I'd like to hear what you think! Also, please let me know if you like short chapters with frequent updates, or long chapters with less frequent updates. Thanks, and see you soon!_


	3. Second Meetings

_Warnings for this chapter: Language._

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_Our hearts are hungry for a food that won't come  
We could make a feast from these crumbs  
And we're all staring down the barrel of a gun  
So if your life flashed before you, what would you wish you would've done?  
_-Live Like We're Dying by Kris Allen

* * *

Mello isn't able to talk on the way to what I assume is their Family headquarters. He slept in the limo while Rod Ross and three other men who I don't know (and no one bothered to introduce to me,) sit across from me, glaring. Apparently they aren't very pleased with Mello's decision to bring me along; I don't blame them. I'm not very pleased with his decision to bring me along either.

When we arrive at the building Mello is carried inside. I tag along uncertainly, my backpack slung over one shoulder. The blonde disappears into a room with a man who must be a doctor, leaving me in a pseudo-living area. Two of the men who'd driven here with us sit down on a large black couch; one leaves the room, and Rod approaches me.

"Do you know why he wanted you to come?" He asks me, and I can't help but looking at him like he's crazy.

"I've known him less than half an hour! Shouldn't you know him better than me?"

Rod laughs, but I have a feeling it's some inside joke because nothing about this situation is funny. "No one knows Mello, not really." He confides.

I eye Rod wearily. "Can't I just come back when he's better?"

"I think it's best if you just wait until he's ready to see you."

I can't help but frown. What am I, his bitch? He can't just tell me to wait around! But…I'm curious. Damn it. "I have to go to the bathroom." I say blandly, and Rod points me in the direction of the bathroom down the hall.

I lock myself in when I get there, dropping my backpack on the counter. I dig my cell phone out of the side pocket and see I've gotten three text messages since the beginning of the expo, none of which I answered because the phone was silenced.

I look at the most recent one, meanwhile sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, and it takes me a moment to remember who the number is—John Harrington, who I hadn't entered as a contact. It reads, 'Send address of hideout when you arrive.'

I can't help but frown to myself, and flip to the first message. The screen says, 'Change of plans; our contact at the Expo informed us what happened with the shooter. We'll track you to the hideout.' God he's wordy. The next message, 'The limo lost us. Don't let the target out of your sight.' I don't even remember anyone saying we were being followed. So that brings me back to the final message, asking for the location.

For a moment I just sit, tapping my fingers on the edge of the tub. Finally I close my phone without answering, standing to place it back in my bag. John Harrington can wait; Mello has made this personal and I make my own rules. Payment or no, I'll decide how to kill the target, if at all. If things are too dangerous then I'm not going to put my ass on the line just for money. I do have boundaries, you know.

I take a hand knife out of my backpack. It's a small blade, but would be good in a pinch. (I'm not an idiot; I _am_ surrounded by mobsters here.) I pull up the front of my shirt, placing the sheathed blade against the front pocket of my pants. I put it high enough that my shirt covers it, then straighten my clothes and run my fingers through red hair a few times. Looking presentable, I go back out into the hall and into the main room. Rod is the only one in the room now, so I sit down on the abandoned black leather couch. My bag drops to the cushion next to me, and I cross my arms loosely as I look at the other man.

After a beat of silence he says, "What's your name?"

This time I answer, "Matt."

Rod nods slightly, introducing himself, which is pointless since I already know him. He continues, "Dr. Norton removed the bullet. He said that Mello's going to be okay, he was lucky."

Lucky indeed. A shot to the back could have easily killed him; I wonder for a moment how he got away with his life. Rod seems to notice my disbelief because he adds, "Mello almost religiously wears a bulletproof vest under his shirt. Unfortunately it was lightweight, and the close range pierced the vest. It slowed the bullet down enough, though, that it was a shallow wound. Missed his spine, and his kidneys."

"Hm," I hear the sound leave my throat, then continue, "So he's paranoid." It paid off , but that doesn't change the facts. Perhaps this wasn't the first—or last—attempt on Mello's life.

Rod laughs aloud, a grating sound. "He's got good reason to be." I wait a moment, but he doesn't elaborate. Irritated, I kick my boots up on the coffee table, reclining on the sofa. Rod doesn't seem to mind because he continues, "I'm going to go check on him. Hang out here, would you?"

I make a noise of agreement, eyes following the bald man as he goes down the hall and out of sight. I drape my arms on the back of the sofa on either side of me, tilting my head back and sighing dramatically. Keeping the appearance of boredom, my eyes flicker lazily across the ceiling and the wall. In one corner is a surveillance camera, although that doesn't surprise me. It's almost too obvious.

I spot three other cameras in my scan around the room, although they are hidden much better than the first. The wall to my far right catches my attention; someone took care to replaster a slim vertical section from the floor to ceiling and then repaint it. It caught my eye because the paint color differs ever-so-slightly; the paint is probably newer or didn't dry quite right. I study the wall, my eyes narrowing without thinking. They put something behind the wall. Nothing smashed into it, there was no accident, it was too systematic a repair for that.

I stand, forgetting the cameras as my curiosity gets the better of me. (Unfortunately, I can be rather single-minded at times.) I stand in front of the wall, running the tip of my gloved pointer finger over the strip slowly. I raise my hand up to my mouth, taking the glove between my teeth and pulling it off. I then use my bare fingers to skim over the slight difference in texture, nearly invisible to the naked eye. I pick at the strip with my nail, but the plaster has long dried.

I reach down, lifting up my shirt and grasping my knife by the handle. I pull it out, gently starting to pick at the plaster with the blade. It chips away, littering the carpet around my boots. My eyes narrow again and I blow gently. Plaster dust bursts in front of my face, nearly making me sneeze. The fingers not holding the knife feel in the hole—one, two, three wires. Blue, red, green…

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" A voice booms, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I do jump back from the wall, and Rod is glaring at me with accusing eyes.

I point at the wall with my knife, gritting my teeth. "You have this place wired with fucking _explosives_? You're all crazy! I'm getting the fuck out of here before you get us all killed!"

I move to push past the larger man, but he grabs me by the arm. I whirl on him—why do people keep grabbing me? "Let me go!" I yell, making to slash him with the knife by he grabs me by the wrist in a bruising grip. I spit in his face. "You're all fucking crazy!" I'm screaming now. I don't have any idea what I've stepped into, but I don't want to be stuck inside a building ready to blow. I value my life, thank you very much.

Rod's face flushes red with anger, and he visibly grits his teeth. I resist a gulp. Physically he could overpower me, and I don't have any toys handy to get the upper hand.

I start to shift my weight, planning on kneeing him right in the balls. As I'm calculating just how much leverage I can get, another voice startles me out of my thoughts, saying, "Well isn't this interesting."

Blood turns to ice water in my veins, eyes locking on the floor so I won't have to look at _his_ face. Rod is still holding me in place but there's no need. I don't think my legs are working. My gaze follows black boots attached to thin, leather clad legs as they travel to where I'd been at the wall. Some new chips of plaster join the ones I'd left on the floor—he must be picking at the wall I'd damaged. A dark chuckle makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. "I like you." He whispers, meanings layered one on top of the other like a rich cake.

My eyes jump to his face and the breath catches in my throat. He knows what he's doing to me, I know he knows. He holds my gaze and I don't dare look away. Usually I hate looking people in the eye but with him I _can't_ look away.

I have a feeling that the man who stands before me is just as explosive as the bomb connected to the wires behind him.

Now that I'm actually looking at him, I see that he's without a shirt. A clean white bandage is wrapped around his torso, looking sterile against his pale skin. He is lean and small, unlike Rod. Mello should have a body like Rod's—it would fit him. Mello is larger than life, and his frame is too small for so much energy; it's like he's bursting at the seams and spilling into everything and everyone—overpowering, overwhelming, everywhere, everything. Especially me.

Mello steps up to me; Rod remains silent. "You," Mello whispers, inches from my face. "Are far too smart for your own good."

"W-What?" I splutter, cheeks darkening without my consent. This is crazy, this isn't me. This isn't me! I haven't blushed since I was six.

His lips curl into a smirk. "What's his name?" He doesn't ask me, instead his question is directed at Rod.

"Matt." Rod replies for me.

"Matt…" Mello repeats thoughtfully, and it sounds so different on his lips than it did on Rod's. His gaze locks onto mine once more, and his icy blue eyes flash with manic humor. "That your real name?" He wants to know.

"No." I breathe without even considering lying. "Do you expect people to believe Mello is _your_ real name?"

Rod's grip tightens around my wrist, warning, but Mello starts laughing. "Rod, leave us." Mello flicks his wrist in a dismissive motion and in an instant I am free of the overpowering grip. Without a word, Rod Ross leaves the room and we're alone.

I'm still holding my knife, and I eye Mello wearily before tucking it back into its holster. I walk slowly back over to the wall, bending to pick up my glove and pull it back on. When I turn back around, Mello is watching me with his arms crossed over his chest. Silence stretches for a long moment, then finally I burst, "What do you want from me?"

Mello chuckles again, going to the couch and sitting down; I can't help but notice that his position is similar to how I was sitting before, arms spread on the top of the cushions and feet propped up. "I know you from somewhere." He says thoughtfully.

I straighten unconsciously. "No you don't." My words have more bite than I'd intended, but panic is rising in me. It would be easy to kill him here, but they know my face and the cameras…

"I never forget a face." He says, sounding bored. "Tell me about yourself…Matt." He purrs my name in such a way that it should be illegal—maybe it is; he doesn't seem like the type to mind the law.

"There's nothing to tell."

"Why were you at the Expo?"

"I was hired to represent a company."

"What company?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." My voice is cold, but I'm avoiding looking at his face. I can feel his eyes boring into me. "Should you be out here? You were just shot."

"Thanks for reminding me." I bet he's rolling his eyes; his voice is sarcastic. "I'm all drugged up and pieced together. Can't even feel my back."

"Maybe you're paralyzed." I offer helpfully.

"Maybe you're trying to avoid the conversation." He leans forward, resting his forearms against his knees, studying me. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. "No, I know you…"

"I would have remembered you." I say, because it's true. How could anyone forget _Mello_?

He studies me critically for what feels like a full minute. His fingers are tapping lightly against his knee and I don't know what to do with myself when he's looking at me like that. "You were at the orphanage." He says finally, decisively.

My entire body goes tense, coiling like a spring, ready to fend off an attack. "You don't know what you're talking about!" I yell at him.

Seeing my reaction, Mello smirks. "Bingo."

"You don't know shit!" I scream at him, my hands balling into fists at my sides. "I was never at an orphanage!"

Mello puts his elbow on the armrest, tilting his head to the side to rest against his hand. "You must have gotten adopted pretty quick; I don't remember you being there long. I don't even think we were introduced—"

"Shut up!" I snap. "Just because you're a bastard kid doesn't mean that everyone else is!"

His eyes flash with something dangerous, but he doesn't move. Instead he changes the subject, voice deathly calm, "Even though you didn't keep me from being shot, I am unfortunately indebted to you. I take favors very seriously in this business."

Startled, my eyebrows furrow. "You don't owe me anything." I murmur. If that other guy hadn't put a bullet in Mello, it would have been me. The only difference would be that I aim for the head. "Like you said," I continue, "You were still shot. I didn't do anything to stop that."

"But you killed my shooter." He says, leaning forward and grabbing something rectangular and wrapped in foil off of the coffee table. He rips the wrapper and I watch, fascinated, as he breaks a piece of dark chocolate off between his teeth.

I mentally shake myself, trying not to focus too long on his mouth. "If I hadn't, someone else would have."

"But someone else didn't—you did."

"Well, yeah—"

"Then shut up." He says, irritated. "I owe you. If you ever need help, let me know."

"Er, okay." I say faintly, not knowing what to make of this whole situation.

His eyes study me for another moment. "You're a tech geek, aren't you?"

I don't even deny it, instead yell again, "What the hell are you, psychic?"

Mello rolls his eyes—maybe he thinks I'm being dramatic. "You have really nimble fingers, bad posture, and you're kind of twitchy."

"I am not twitchy!"

Mello chuckles, but continues unfazed, "I figured maybe you were a pianist—but pianists usually don't have bad posture. You could be on drugs, that would explain the twitchiness, but you're too coordinated for that. It makes sense that you sit in front of a computer a lot. It looks like you're taking things apart with your mind, like you have to know how everything works. That's why you ruined my wall."

Shaken, I say, "No normal person is as observant as you are."

"Normal is such a dirty word." Mello's eyes glint as he breaks off another bite of chocolate. "You know that no _normal_ person would have noticed the deviation in the wall plaster…"

I glare at him. "So what's it matter if I work on computers?"

Mello shrugs. "Just filing it away in case I need someone to fix my toaster or something."

I look away, "I need to go home."

Mello doesn't move to get up. "Well there's the door, do you need some help opening it or something?"

"No!" I reply indignantly. "I don't attract bullets like some people. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself."

"Mmhm." Mello smirks.

"How…should I get a hold of you?" I ask, looking down at my feet. "You know, if I need to cash in my favor."

"409-2380." He takes another bite of chocolate—I hear it snap between his teeth.

"What if I forget it?" I ask shrewdly, although there's little chance of that; the numbers are already engrained in my mind. I just want to see what he'll say.

Mello smirks. "You won't forgot."

I should have figured he would say something snarky. "Don't get shot again." I say, picking up my backpack and slinging it over one shoulder.

Mello gives a lazy salute, and I feel his eyes on me as I turn to walk to the door he'd indicated. I pause, my hand on the knob. I look over my shoulder at him; he tilts his head to the side slightly, raising an eyebrow in question. I don't know what I wanted to say, but even the possibility of speaking is lost with his eyes boring into mine. I duck my head, opening the door and walking outside without a word. It's already dark. I don't look back at Mello's headquarters, instead shoving my hands into my pockets and starting to walk down the sidewalk.

After about ten minutes of silence and some nine odd blocks, I pull my backpack around, withdrawing my cell phone. I dial the number that had texted me earlier; it rings once before a man's voice asks, "Hello?"

"He'll be dead tomorrow; I'm taking care of it." I flip the phone closed before John Harrington can respond, effectively ending the conversation. I keep walking for another block before I flag down a cab, getting a ride back to the Expo to pick up my car.

* * *

_AN: This chapter is overdue, my apologies! I am getting on a better writing schedule now, so I'm hoping weekly updates will be possible. =) I have something excited planned for the next chapter; more action to come! The next chapter should be longer, too. =D Turning point coming up!_

_All your reviews have been so encouraging. Whenever I'm feeling uninspired, I go through the reviews and it makes me feel so happy and motivated! I really appreciate your support and feedback. =) Thank you all so so much! If you feel so inclined, please let me know your favorite quote from the story so far! I'd like to change the summary of the story with a new excerpt; I highly value your opinion! Thanks again! New chapter will be up soon! =D_


	4. Third Strike

_Warnings for this chapter: Language, sexual situations, and mild violence. Please mind the rating and enjoy!_

* * *

_We were the Kings and Queens of promise  
We were the victims of ourselves  
Maybe the Children of a lesser God  
Between Heaven and Hell  
Heaven and Hell  
_-Kings and Queens by 30 Seconds To Mars

* * *

The day after the fiasco at the Expo, I pick up my phone around 10:30 and dial the seven digit number Mello had given me. On the second ring a deep, bored voice answers, "What do you want Matt? I could have been sleeping."

I check my watch again—no way he was still sleeping this late. I decide to call him out on it, "You don't seem like the type to sleep into the afternoon." Then it occurs to me, "Hey! How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would be stupid enough to call me this early? Now what'd ya want?" He sounds cranky. Maybe he was conditioning his hair or something.

I tap my cigarette into the ashtray at my side. "I want to cash in my favor."

"Screw you." Who spit in his breakfast?

I grind my teeth, relaxing only when I take another drag. "I thought you said you take this seriously?" I reiterate calmly.

"Fine." He grumbles, "What is it you need?"

"I want to talk in person."

"You're high maintenance, you know that?"

"I guess we have that in common."

There is a moment of silence, and I internally cheer at the small win in verbal jousting. "Where do you want to meet?" He asks finally.

* * *

Kat's Café is located on the corner of Park Lane and Seventh Street. The walls facing the streets have large windows; the wrought iron tables seat two or four. There are three newspaper racks next to the door so customers can pick their favorite paper to read with their caffeinated beverage. Awnings hang over the windows, black and white stripes, shading the outdoor tables. They have a variety of treats inside the glass case next to the register; personally, I like their bear claws. The baristas wear black and white striped aprons with a small paw print logo stamped at the upper right-hand corner.

I usually don't buy coffee at high-priced cafés like Kat's, but sometimes I can't avoid the need for some hot caffeine. I have to sit outside in order to smoke, but when the weather is nice it's a good place to go.

The intersection Kat's is located on isn't exceptionally busy; this is the shopping district, so foot traffic is more common than cars. I told Mello that I wanted to meet at Kat's Café, not because of the good bear claws, but because of the location. Kitty-corner to the coffee shop is a three story building that used to be a department store. When it went out of business about a year ago, the floors were rented to various companies and it is not longer a public store. The first floor is used by a nonprofit phone marketing corporation. The second floor has been renovated into cubical offices for helpline operators. The third floors has yet to be rented, and is up for lease.

When I step into the ground floor of the building, I approach the front desk. A kind looking woman smiles at me and I return the gesture. My jumpsuit is grey-blue, the name Mason stitched on the right side of my chest. Stamped on the back is the name of a local electrical company. "Hello," I greet her in my friendliest tone, adjusting the bag I'm carrying over one shoulder. "Could you point me to the elevator? Macy at Trammell Crow sent me to fix the electrical wiring on the third floor." I supply the name of the agent and realty company with ease.

The woman at the desk doesn't even bat an eyelash, pointing me down the hall, to where the elevator is clearly visible. I press the up arrow, chewing my gum as I wait for the lift to arrive. I have the elevator to myself on the ride up and I arrive at the abandoned third floor. All the displays and merchandise have been taken down, leaving the floor mostly open.

I stride across the floor, taking my gum out and sticking it to the bottom of my boot. A cigarette soon replaces the gum, solving my oral fixation. I drop my bag with a clatter, taking a long drag while I unzip a side pocket on the heavy bag, withdrawing out a pair of gold tinted goggles. I pull them down over my eyes, my red hair pushed flat under the band. My suit is unzipped next, leaving me in much more comfortable jeans and a t-shirt.

I check my watch—plenty of time. Smoking all the while, I unzip the main compartment of my bag and pull out the first contraption to help me prepare. I get down on my stomach, looking down at the street below and the coffee shop across the way. I make sure my position is premium before pressing the circular device against the thick, solid glass. It suctions in place, and as soon as I flick the switch it hums faintly, a thin blade swiping around the circumference of the tool. After two revolutions the glass comes loose in my hand. I pull the device back and admire the perfect circle no more than a foot in diameter in the window. The light breeze moves the stale air of the third floor and I exhale smoke before reaching back into my bag.

With several satisfying snaps and clicks I assemble my weapon, a sniper rifle. It stands on the floor, the barrel just several inches back from my freshly cut circle in the window. I adjust myself to fit against the large gun, looking down the scope and adjusting it to aim at the entrance of Kat's Café. Mello will either arrive in a car or on foot. Either way I'll be able to see his approach from any direction and I should have a clear shot.

I pull away from the gun to glance down at my watch, pleased to see I have five minutes to spare until our four o'clock meeting time. I smoke my way through the cigarette and light another, all the while watching the café while lying on my stomach. Five minutes after four, I'm starting to get agitated. He didn't say he would be late. I'm unnecessarily angry—didn't he want to meet me? Why would he be late? Maybe something happened on his way here.

I fidget, tapping gloved fingers mindlessly against the side of the gun. I have no idea how I didn't hear it. Maybe I was just so focused on the street below that I completely forgot about that room around me—whatever it was, when a hand grabbed me by the back of my collar I yelled out in surprise.

I am yanked up to my feet. Adrenaline floods me, my right hand moving to the gun fastened against my hip. My back hits the wall—hard—knocking the breath out of me. Smoldering blue eyes bore into mine—he's furious. Shocked, I freeze in place, my hand still gripping the gun in its holster. I am prepared for a verbal lashing, a physical assault, anything—except for what he actually does.

His hands pin my shoulders roughly to the wall, lips mashing against mine. I gasp, the sound muffled against Mello's mouth. His lips are demanding, and he's using them with bruising intensity. A tingling sensation spreads across my skin, causing short hairs to stand on end and goosebumps to rise on my arms and the back of my neck.

Reactions delayed, my fingers loosen around butt of my gun. Mello's hands move from my shoulders, one up to my neck and the other pulling off my goggles and dropping them to the floor. His fingers fist into my hair, holding me in place. His head tilts to the side, his nose knocking against my cheek. His body is now pinning me to the wall, hips pressing into mine.

It feels like he's ripping my hair out by the roots, crushing our lips together roughly. Unable to breathe, I release my gun without even thinking, instead gripping the front of his leather vest. I gasp for air and he takes it as an invitation to invade my mouth with his tongue. I push back with my own and our tongues tangle in battle.

Mello's hand against my neck slips down, tracing the skin just beneath the collar of my shirt. I can't help the small sound that slips past my lips, squirming against him. I kiss him back fiercely, hoping to gain the upper hand. He doesn't let me have it.

His hand slides lower, skimming my nipple through the fabric of my shirt on his way down. I arch into the touch, not even having the sense to be embarrassed when I moan. My hand moves up to grip his hair, keeping our lips pressed together. My eyes have long since closed, each breath coming out as a pant.

Just before reaching the hem of my pants, the touch of his hand disappears. Distracted by his lips and the hand in my hair, I don't notice. Then fire erupts in my abdomen, sharp and hot—much different than the arousal that had building there a moment ago. I gasp, shocked and confused. Warmth trickles down the front of my shirt, soaking into my pants. I try to turn my head away, but Mello's grip in my hair tightens and he continues kissing me while I whimper.

Finally he breaks the sloppy, now one-sided kiss, pressing his lips close to my ear. "You are so frustrating." He whispers with a dark chuckle.

I'm able to tilt my head down to look between our bodies—his hand is still gripping the handle of the knife in my gut. A dry sob racks my body. "You-you stabbed me!" It hurts, and he's keeping pressure on the knife; it's digging into my insides, touching places that should never be touched. I'm shaking faintly, but Mello keeps me pinned between him and the wall. I don't have the strength of body or mind at this moment to fight against him.

"And you were going to shoot me." He reminds me—to be honest, I'd totally forgotten about that with his lips against mine. "Now we're even." His tongue traces the shell of my ear, causing me to shiver for other reasons than the knife stuck in my stomach.

"Fuck…you…" I whisper brokenly, shoulders shuddering with each breath.

"You're so cute when you're in pain!" He declares, seeming delighted.

"You're trying to kill me!" I scream, probably louder than necessary.

Mello is unfazed, rolling his eyes. "If I wanted to kill you I could do so easily. Consider this a warning."

"You stabbed me as a _warning_?" I squeak indignantly.

"You're lucky; I could have used my gun."

"You're crazy! You would shoot me while we're making out?"

"Who said anything about shooting?" His eyes glint mischievously, grinning.

My mouth opens and closes, words failing me. I certainly hope he isn't suggesting what I think he's suggesting. …Who am I kidding? Of course that's what he meant. "You…you…" I don't even know what to say to him. He's bat-shit crazy!

Mello just smirks, pulling back, knife and all. I cry out as the blade cuts again upon exiting. I clutch my stomach, warm blood leaking out between my gloved fingers. It's throbbing something terrible.

Mello is inspecting his bloodstained knife. He steps forward again and I instinctively press back against the wall to get as far away from his as possible. He grabs the hem of my shirt, lifting it up to clean the dirty blade. "Don't be so jumpy. I'm not going to stab you again." He says, seeming amused.

How can he be so casual? I'm _bleeding_ here! "I don't _know_ you won't stab me—you keep surprising me with your level of insanity." I mumble, trying to scoot to one side so I can make a break for it.

"Everything is so dramatic with you Matty." He muses, grabbing me by the arm before I can try to make my escape. "Come on, a few minutes ago you were ready to be fucked right here against the window."

My cheeks darken and I splutter, "W-What? No! I don't sleep with people who are crazy!"

"Mmhm." He smirks, looking down at where I'm clutching the seeping wound. He sighs. "Okay, let me see it."

"No!" I squawk.

Mello ignores me, grabbing my hand and pulling it away from my stomach. "It's really not that bad," Is his expert opinion.

"Fuck you. I'm going to a doctor."

"Fine, fine." He waves his hand—it reminds me of the dismissive motion he'd given Rod the day before. "Pack up your toys and I'll take you to the doctor _Mason_. Speaking of which, you took care of the security cameras, right?"

I resist the urge to strangle him. "I was posing as an electrician for Christ's sake—of course I rewired the security cameras!"

"Just checking. Now get your stuff, let's go."

"You pick it up!" I demand stubbornly. "You're the reason I'm injured, you could show some regret or-or _something_."

"This coming from the man who was going to kill me when I went into the coffee shop down there." Mello rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Pick up your shit, Matt."

"Well I'm not going to kill you _now_."

"I don't _know_ that." His eyes glint with mirth; he's mocking my earlier statement.

"I hate you." I sulk as I clutch my stomach, using my other hand to start pulling apart my sniper. He doesn't even offer to help me, watching with that damn smug expression on his face.

I pull my goggles back on, disassembling the gun without too much grief. I get everything back in the bag, and then look down at myself. My front is covered with blood thanks to the psychopath who I find ridiculous attractive. "I can't go out like this."

"Of course not." Mello muses, pulling something out of his back pocket—a sterile cotton square with adhesive edges. He rips open the packaging with his teeth, lifting up my shirt and pressing the bandage to my wound.

I whine as it throbs. "You planned for this." I mumble.

"Mmhm." Mello picks up the jumpsuit I'd walked in with, offering it to me. "You should be able to get out of here without bleeding through this."

"How did you know I was up here?" I pull the outfit on slowly; bending over is difficult.

"I asked the lady at the front desk where the sexy maintenance man was." He smirks, watching me dress.

"How-how do you know all this?" I ask helplessly. "That I would be up here, what I'd be dressed as…that I was planning on shooting you."

Mello gives a half shrug, picking up my bag. "I figured someone had hired you to kill me from the start."

"But how do you _know_ that?"

"Instinct?" He shrugs again. "I knew that you weren't on a personal vendetta; you were too easily deterred. Money can buy a service but it can't buy loyalty. There's always someone else out there with more to offer. You're better than this, being an assassin." I can't believe that we're having a serious conversation. I just stare at him, and he continues without prompting. "I knew that you were hired to kill me when I first saw you."

"Am I that obvious?"

Mello laughs. "Maybe not to everyone else, but your body language said it all. You had picked me out of the crowd—and while you made an effort to physically avoid me, it still felt like you were keeping me on your radar. I figured you'd try again today. Looking at the area, this was the smartest place to go. The rest was just a good guess."

I'm quiet for a moment, pulling a cigarette and lighter out of my pocket, lighting up. I exhale smoke before asking, "Are you mad at me?"

This time his laugh is manic and his eyes glint with something dark and interested. "I should be, but to be honest…I think you trying to kill me is kind of hot."

Something about the way he said it makes me shudder. "You get turned on by all your assassination attempts?"

He chuckles. "No, just yours." He stops, skimming his fingers down the front of my shirt. Despite the pain I'm in, I can't help but shiver faintly. "You...are special. I haven't quite figured you out yet."

"I thought you had everything figured out." I breathe, unable to break my gaze away from his.

"Not everything." He cocks his head to the side, smirking.

I have to look away, hoping to stop the color flooding my cheeks. "Did you really ask the girl downstairs where the, uh, sexy maintenance man was?"

Mello cocks an eyebrow, his smile growing. "You think I wouldn't?"

"No, I'm afraid that you have no boundaries." My shoulders slump, resisting the urge to hold my injured stomach. (I don't want the blood to seep through the jumpsuit before we get to Mello's car.)

"I'll answer that for you—no, I don't have any boundaries." He seems very pleased with himself.

"Don't tempt me to try to kill you again." I mumble, waiting at his side as he presses the button for the elevator.

He laughs shortly. "You'd never kill me; you want to jump my bones."

I just sigh. There is no winning with Mello. I drop my cigarette as the elevator opens, grinding it out on the floor with my boot.

"So what are you going to do about your contract to kill me?" He wants to know as we step into the elevator together. Our shoulders bump lightly as we stand there, travelling down to the ground floor. I'm feeling a little lightheaded—blood loss, most likely.

"I don't know." I say honestly. "I certainly hope you're paying good."

Mello smirks as the doors slide open. "As long as you're whoring yourself out, I'll always pay good."

I roll my eyes, following him towards the exit. I keep my gaze down, avoiding looking at the receptionist. Mello doesn't even bother to slow down to let me keep step with him—jerk. It's his fault I'm bleeding and in pain.

When I stop beside him he's pulling a helmet off back of a motorcycle. He offers it to me. I can only blanch at him. "My car is just three blocks over."

"You walk as slow as a turtle through hot tar." Mello complains.

"You've forgotten that someone stabbed that turtle." I deadpan.

"Mmm." He shoves the helmet at me, and I have to catch it with my hands before he pushes it into my chest. "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?" He puts on a pair of sunglasses; apparently he only has one helmet.

I grumble while pulling the helmet on. Mello swings his leg over the bike, settling onto the seat. He pats the place behind him, and with a sigh I mount the motorcycle as well. He grabs my arms, pulling them around his waist. I give a small _oof_ as the motion pulls uncomfortably at my stab wound.

Mello ignores me, putting his key into the bike. He turns it, but the engine doesn't roar to life like it should have. In that half second we both tense, only just starting to move as the vehicle explodes beneath us.

* * *

_AN: I love Matt getting stabbed. xD I just thought Mello was hilarious. No further comments. =) Next chapter will be up soon—sooner if you review! Please let me know what you think! All reviews are very much appreciated, reappreciated, and fawned over. =D Thank you guys for keeping me so motivated! You rock!_


	5. Four The Good of Man

_Warnings for this chapter: Language, violence, mild gore, and mild sexual situations. Please mind the rating and enjoy!_

* * *

_Drivin' home this evening  
I coulda sworn we had it all worked out  
You had this boy believin'  
Way beyond the shadow of a doubt_  
- Cuts Like A Knife by Bryan Adams

* * *

The sky should be light blue, I remind myself. It looks dark—not quite navy blue, but almost there. I squint. The sun is up there, as it should be, a ball of white heat and flames. I feel those flames on my arms, on my legs.

Mello's face suddenly obscures the view, his lips moving faster than I can comprehend. He shakes me by the shoulders. Faintly, I hear, "Move move move move move!" Over and over he says it, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me up into a sitting position. Blood rushes to my head I groan—the helmet. I'm wearing the helmet. The visor is tinted, that's why everything is so dark. Right?

Mello looks shaken. There is soot smeared across his face; some of his leather outfit is torn and red, angry skin is visible. I look down at my arms. They had been wrapped around Mello's waist, and the fire must have licked them because my jumpsuit is burned and my skin is starting to blister. "Get up!" He's screaming at me now, already on his feet. I don't remember seeing him move.

I pull off the helmet with some effort, and as I hold it in my burned hands I notice a series of spidering cracks around a place of impact on the back of the helmet. I must have hit the pavement. "I…" My tongue feels thick and my head heavy. How hard did I fall? I think my brain bounced around in my skull a bit.

I look to my right—Mello's bike is in flames, a mere ten feet away. Suddenly Mello yanks on my arm, using nearly enough force to dislocate my shoulder. I yelp. His hand is gripping my tender forearm, which is marred with soot and burns. "We have to go!" He yells at me again, blue eyes furious. Is he mad at me?

Then we're running, and he's pulling me along. Is he hurt? Am _I_ hurt? The throbbing inferno in my stomach says yes, but my legs are working. We're moving. We're getting away.

Then my arm explodes.

I scream. My blood paints the pavement of the alley we'd run into, and it's gushing down the left side of my body. My arm hangs limply at my side, Mello still clutching my right hand. His mantra suddenly turns to, "Shit shit shit _shit_!"

He darts behind a dumpster pressed against the alley wall, dragging me along with him. I think I'm sobbing. "Shut up and let me see it!" He snaps, pulling my arm roughly; I scream again as white hot pain rips through my arm and shoulder. He ignores me. "The bullet went straight through," He's mumbling and I half hear as he says, "Looks like a sniper, .50 caliber…shit."

Mello shoves me down, and I crumple like a rag doll. My good shoulder is pressed against the dumpster, my back against the scummy wall of the alley. I'm sobbing again—I don't actually know if I ever stopped.

Mello hunkers down beside me, his back against the side of the dumpster. It smells terrible here, like rotten food and blood. "Be quiet!" He hisses. I hadn't realized I was making any noise. Everything is a blur of pain and fear. My brain is still hurting, but not as bad as my arm.

"We're g-g-gonna d-die." The blubbering words slip past my lips.

I didn't even see him swing, but Mello's fist pounds me right in the ear. Another cry gurgles up from my throat; it feels like my eardrum exploded. "Shut up!" Now he's yelling at me. "We're not going to die! But now you know what it feels like to be on the other side of that gun so just _shut up_!" His fists are clenching, and for a horrifying moment I think he's going to hit me again—but he doesn't. "We have to assume the sniper has a clear shot down this alleyway."

I nod, completely silent now. I can't move my arm. It's just hanging there, limp at my side. I don't want to look at it. I don't want to think about it, but I can't seem to think about anything else.

Mello reaches down into his pocket, pulling out a cell phone. He doesn't say anything else to me, instead dialing a number and pressing it to his ear. "We're in some trouble," He says into the phone, just as a bullet hits the edge of the dumpster and ricochets off to the wall opposite us and clatters to the ground. I stare at it, the shining gold, and the thing must be as long as my fucking pinky. The bullet. Is as long as my _pinky_. Like the fucking finger. God, of course I know what sniper bullets look like but that thing went _through my arm_. It's like someone shoved their pinky through my arm—at 3000 feet per second.

Just as I think I'm about to start hyperventilating, I feel a hand on my knee. Mello is just resting it there as he explains the situation briefly into the phone. He's not even looking at me, but I calm marginally. After what feels like ages of listening to him speak in low, rushed tones, he hangs up and finally looks at me. "I'm sorry I hit you." He says, moving to grab the sleeve of my (Mason's) electrical company jumpsuit. He rips the sleeve off, all the while keeping himself low to the ground.

"It's okay." I murmur faintly. "I deserved it."

Mello moves around to my other side, starting to wind the fabric around my upper arm where the blood is flowing freely. He makes the makeshift bandage uncomfortably tight. "You didn't deserve it." He says firmly. "I was just upset. But everything's okay now. My men will come and take care of the sniper, then pick us up. We can go back to the compound where the doctor can fix you up."

"What about you?" I ask, my eyes following him as he sits back down against the dumpster. We're sitting very close. "Are you hurt?"

Mello shrugs a little, rubbing at his sooty cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. "Nothing too bad. I think I have some burns around my stomach and thighs but it could have been worse. I think whoever rigged my bike purposely did a poor job at it; the explosives were supposed to ignite the entire gasoline tank but it didn't. I think they may have drained the gas so it didn't have enough to cause a full explosion."

"But why would they do that?" I prompt.

"How the hell would I know?" Mello snaps.

I remain silent, clasping a hand over the bandage on my arm. It's already bled through. I think I need both hands to count up all the injuries I'm accumulating; now that I'm sitting I doubt my ability to get back up.

Mello starts to inspect his own wounds, pulling back torn leather and checking his stomach and legs. I keep huddled in the corner. The sniper hasn't fired anymore shots and I'm starting to become concerned. The anticipation is killing me; with nothing else to focus on my wounds start to ache more intensely. I rest my forehead against my knees, breathing deeply, trying not to cry again. Mello must think I'm so weak.

Suddenly Mello hits my leg, and I look up. "There they are!" He says with pleasure and pride, just as a white van screeches to a halt at the end of the alley, some twenty yards away. He's just starting to push himself up as the door on the side of the windowless vehicle slides open and the body of a man falls out and hits the pavement with a wet thud. I have no idea who it is, but I can guess—as Mello pales I know for sure that it's one of his men.

A man, lean and tall, steps out of the body of the van. He's dressed in jeans and a black shirt, a ski mask pulled down over his face. He steps over the body sprawled out on the tarmac, pulling out a handgun. Mello is yelling something that I don't hear—I don't even think, my hand going to the gun fastened at my waist, there under my jumpsuit—is it still there? Yes—and clutch it, extending my good arm. Level. Breathe. Aim.

_Bang_. _Bang_. _Bang_.

The man's body jerks back as each of the bullets hit him, the first in his leg and the next two in his chest. His leg buckles as he collapses onto the pavement, clutching his thigh—a bullet proof vest protected him from the others, I bet.

"Run!" Mello screams, dragging me up by my injured arm. The sound of pain gets caught in my throat, my eyes burning with fresh tears. Mello is pulling me along, still holding my arm. I clumsily follow, realizing belatedly that we're running _towards _the van.

No no no there are bad people there! I try to say so, but my voice gets caught in the wind. We're already there, just as the driver's door is opening and a hefty man is stepping out. I don't get a good look at him because—oh great—a sniper bullet ricochets off the wall just inches from my face.

"Keep running!" Mello yells, ripping the gun from my sweaty hand. He shoots the driver of the truck in the head. I still don't know what he looked like.

Instead of hopping into the van—which looks so appealing because we wouldn't have to run anymore—Mello turns onto the street perpendicular to our alleyway and keeps running. My lungs are on fire. But there are no more bullets here. The sniper must be on the next street over.

Mello leads me arbitrarily for what feels like miles—realistically it must be about a dozen blocks.

"Mel…" I can't even get his whole name out. My eyelids are heavy and my feet are dragging. Everything is throbbing, burning… "I'm bleeding…on the sidewalk…"

Mello stops, looking back at the trail of blood that's following us. He curses loudly, pulling me over onto someone's lawn. We're in a neighborhood by now, outside the shopping district. These are nice houses.

We continue on for several more blocks, Mello even going so far as to wrap his jacket around my arm to keep me from bleeding onto the sidewalk. I'm dead on my feet when we finally stop. I'm staring at the ground, grass again, lush and green…the sound of glass shattering makes me jump, frantic eyes darting up. We're standing on the side of a two story house; it's big and blue house with dark trim and shutters. Mello just broke the window going into what looks like a bedroom. He reaches into the broken area, groping up to find the latch. He unlocks the window and climbs inside.

He turns to look down at me from inside the room—maybe a little girl's room, the walls are purple—and he sighs. "Go around to the front door." He commands, turning and walking away.

Dumbly, my legs move towards the front of the house. When I get to the polished white door, Mello is standing there. He ushers me inside, but not before I notice the name 'McHenry' engraved on the knocker. He shuts the door behind me, locking it. I'm dripping blood again—this time on the nice hardwood entryway of the McHenry household.

"Mello," I sound breathless. "We…we're breaking into someone's house. We can't break into someone's house."

"Oh, be quiet." He adjusts his jacket on my arm so I don't drip anymore, leading be further into the house. It's like he owns the place. We stop at a bathroom. The fixtures are all what I believe is called 'brushed nickel.' "Take off all your clothes and get in the tub." Mello says, gesturing to the Jacuzzi sitting snuggly in the corner of the large room. I think my living room is this big. And this is only a guest bathroom?

"Am I taking a bath?" I ask dumbly.

"No—don't you dare run the water." Mello says firmly. "Just do it, I'll be back."

He leaves the room and I methodically start peeling off my clothes. Trying to move my injured arm sends pain rocketing through my body, so it's slow going. My other limbs feel like lead. I don't want to look in the mirror and see how badly I'm beat up. I leave my clothes in a pile on the floor, avoiding the lush rug, and climb over the lip of the tub. With some effort I manage to sit on the bottom; I can stretch my legs straight out and not touch the other end of the bath. I thought only hotels were like this.

I'm only alone a few minutes before Mello returns with a basket of supplies. He sits down on the lid of the toilet, which is situated beside the bath. He's unscrewing the cap on a white bottle that looks to be about 1 liter, maybe a little less. Without preamble he leans over, tips the bottle, and dumps the liquid over my arm. Before I can scream, his other hand clamps down over my mouth.

"I know it hurts," He's still pouring, although he does look a little regretful. "Just hold on."

I'm sobbing—dry, heavy sobs. My other hand reaches up to grip his over my mouth, holding it there. It feels like I'm being shot all over again; I'm on fire; I want to cut off my own arm. Just get rid of it, I don't want it anymore. It's still throbbing when he stops pouring; he must have dumped almost the whole bottle on me. The disinfectant, which should have been clear, ran dark pink down the bottom of the tub and disappeared into the drain.

As I relax a fraction, Mello pulls his hand back. He caps the bottle and sets it on the counter at his other side. "Until we can see a doctor, we need to keep that really clean. I can't stitch it myself because it'll probably get infected. I think the bullet cut through your bone; we need to have it set and stitched by a professional."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" I ask, trying to sound stronger than I feel. "There are people out there looking for us—looking for _you_."

"I know." Mello sighs. "Right now we just need to stop the bleeding and keep it clean. Let's take this one step at a time." He takes a roll of clean, white bandages out of the basket, then two sealed squares of sterile bandages. He rips them open, pressing one to either side of my arm. With the wound covered, I look down while he starts wrapping the bandage around my arm. Blood is already starting to seep through. He makes the dressing tighter than before, causing me to whimper. He doesn't say anything, continuing to fix the bandage to his liking.

"…Why am I naked in an empty bathtub?" I finally ask.

"Because you were bleeding over everything." Mello rolls his eyes like it should be obvious. "And I needed to dump that disinfectant over your arm. We have to change our clothes anyways, and in here you can bleed all you want…plus, I just wanted to see you naked." He smirks.

I don't think I have the blood levels to blush, but I avert my gaze regardless.

"I'm all gross." I mumble.

"Fine, get the washcloth wet and give yourself a spit bath. If you get your arm wet I will kill you." I don't doubt it. "We still need to put burn cream on your forearms and change the dressing on your stomach. Clean up, then we can do that. Oh, but before you do," Mello turns to the basket and roots around for a moment. He turns back to me with a prescription bottle in hand. "It looks like Mr. McHenry has back pain. Poor guy." He opens the childproof lid, shaking two pills into his hand and offers them to me. I take them thankfully, swallowing the medicine dry.

"Just call if you need me. And don't die while I'm gone." He says, dropping the pills back into the basket and standing.

"Wait," My voice sounds almost desperate, and he pauses. "Are you…what if they come home?"

"We've got a few hours, at least. Trust me."

I bite my lower lip. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I'll be in the house." Maybe it's my imagination, but I think his voice softened a little. He turns and leaves the bathroom, leaving the door cracked.

I peel the sticky bandage off my stomach; the stab wound has stopped bleeding, at least. I can't believe just an hour ago I was going to kill Mello. God, what was I thinking? I wet a fluffy white washcloth under the Jacuzzi faucet, using it to wipe down my body.

On the floor above me I hear the faint sound of a shower turning on. My eyes flutter closed, trying for a moment to picture Mello naked in the shower. Even in my imagination he turns to me in all his wet, naked glory, eyes flashing. He demands, "What are you doing here?" I have to smile, despite everything. I can't even conjure up a tame version of Mello in the confines of my mind.

I'm feeling a little drowsy; it's probably the pain medicine. I sink a little lower in the empty tub, washcloth still in hand. With lazy movements I manage to scrub away the soot, blood and dirt, but I'm careful around my wounds. The soap in the bath—unused and lavender scented—does wonders on my skin. I'm still aching all over when I rinse off, but at least I'm clean. The pain medicine has taken the edge off.

I must have been in the bath longer than I thought, because at some point the shower above turned off. Had I fallen asleep? I don't think so. With the grace and speed of an eighty-year-old man, I climb out of the tub and grab one of the towels off the rack by the Jacuzzi. I pat down my skin, wrapping the towel loosely around my waist. I leave my soiled clothes on the floor, grabbing the medical basket before walking out into the main part of the house.

Mello isn't in the immediate area, so I walk past a few rooms, glancing inside each. When I reach the large, open kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks. The medical basket drops out of my hand and hits the floor, supplies scattering in every direction. I think my mouth is hanging open.

Here's Mello, standing in front of the kitchen's island, eating a sandwich. His hair—it's black. His black, black hair is pulled back from his face, tied in a messy ponytail. His leather outfit is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he's wearing a pair of dark jeans that look about two sizes too big; they're hanging low on his narrow hips. His shirt is black and tighter. It says Van Halen on the front.

Mello glances at me, chewing, raising one—now black—eyebrow. His beautiful blonde hair. What happened to his hair?

"You-you…you…" I stutter uselessly. Maybe the pain meds have made me unintelligible.

Mello rolls his blue eyes. At least those are still recognizable. "Eat that." He points with his pinky to a plate set in front of one of the barstools. It has a sandwich and some pretzels on it. Next to the plate is a glass filled with something orange, presumably orange juice.

I sit down, unable to tear my eyes from his hair. And his _clothes_. "You dyed your hair?" I squeak. I don't know why I made it a question. Obviously he dyed his hair.

"It's temporary dye." He takes another bite of sandwich, leaning one hip against the counter. He's picking off the crust while he chews—and placing the crust on my plate. Ew, why would I eat his crust? "There are probably twenty cans of this shit in the kid's room."

"The girl with the purple room dyes her hair?" I ask in disbelief.

"No dipshit," He pulls on his shirt, like it should be obvious. "There's a son. He's got pretty much every color; God knows why he needs to dye his hair blue."

"Maybe he likes blue." I defend the McHenry boy weakly, probably because I feel guilty that we're making use of their house.

"Whatever." Mello just shrugs. He pops the last bit of crustless sandwich into his mouth, moving to pick up all the medical supplies I'd dropped and put it back in the basket; he sets it on the counter beside me. "You're bleeding through your bandage." He observes, and I look down. Sure enough, the once white bandage wrapped around my arm is almost completely red.

"I didn't get it wet." I say, picking up a pretzel and biting off one of the arches.

"Yeah yeah." Mello scowls at my arm, as if that will make it stop bleeding. Hell, I bet Mello could make almost anything happen—even stop a bodily function like bleeding—with pure force of willpower. "I'll tear up some sheets to use as bandages before we leave. First I need to fix the rest of your wounds though."

"What about you?" I remember seeing those flashes of skin through ripped leather after the bike explosion. "Weren't you hurt?"

Mello shrugs. "Nothing too bad."

"Let me see." I turn in my barstool, looking up into his eyes.

He stares down at me for a moment. It's amazing to watch expressions cross his face, and how his eyes are calculating and sizing me up. His dark hair makes his eyes bluer. "Fine." At last he agrees, taking the hem of his shirt and pulling it up to the middle of his chest.

On the stool I am eye-level with his stomach. His pale skin is marred with a series of red blisters, some that dip below the top of his pants. I reach forward without thinking, skimming my fingers along his stomach, just inches away from his wounds. I watch in fascination as his skin quivers under my fingertips.

My eyes dart back up to his; his gaze has darkened. I bite my lower lip. For a moment I think he's going to kiss me, but he steps away. "I have to put some burn cream on those." I object suddenly.

"We have a lot to do." He argues irritably. "You need to eat, I have to rebandage your arm, take care of your burns and the rest of your accident-prone ass. On top of that we have to dye your hair and pack up supplies."

"You're not dying _my _hair!" I say, horrified. My red hair is practically the only thing that gives me individuality. I like it.

"It's only temporary." He reminds me.

"But—why can't we just call your men? Where are we going?"

"We need to lie low for a while until things calm down. I trust my men, but I don't know if walking back to the mafia is the best idea right now. Whoever is after me is no doubt monitoring my hideout."

I frown a little. "So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know yet. Don't worry about it; let's just take this one step at a time."

I'm too tired to press this conversation further; I can already tell he's getting irritated and cutting me off. So I try again, "Please, let's at least put some burn cream on your stomach. Those blisters must hurt."

"Fine." He's probably just agreeing to pacify me but I don't care. He's agreeing, and that's all that matters.

I grab the burn cream out of the basket with my good hand; my injured arm is just lying limp at my side. If I don't move it and don't think about it, it's only a throbbing ache in the back of my mind. Mello helps me uncap the jar, and then lifts up his shirt again.

I feel a little giddy—okay, that's probably the pain medicine. Wait, first I was drowsy, now I'm giddy? That's some fucked up medicine.

Anyways, I get some of the cool cream on my fingers and start to gently paint it onto his stomach. I'm doing it very slowly, secretly enjoying how his skin twitches and his breath catches a little every time my fingers touch him.

"You should take off your pants." I whisper, looking up at him. Maybe it's my imagination, but I think his eyes have darkened again.

Without a word he unfastens the pants with one hand, and they slide off easily to pool around his ankles. He's wearing black boxers.

There are more blisters on his thighs and the insides of his knees. They disappear up under his boxers. Because he'd been sitting on the bike in front of me, the blast had been from below, just in front of him. I hope he's not hurt in more sensitive areas. I don't ask, instead starting at his left knee and beginning to smear the cream upwards. My fingers slide over warm skin, hopefully soothing his injuries. I reach his boxers at the inside of his thigh. My fingers linger for only a moment before repeating the same journey on his other leg.

It hasn't escaped my notice that his breath is coming a little faster, but I haven't looked up into his face in a while to see his reactions. Even though I've covered all the burned skin available to me by now, I continue tracing my fingers up and down the inside of his leg—I need to spread it around, you know.

His stomach is just inches from my face. I can't help myself anymore. I lean forward slowly, so slowly that he could have stopped me at any time if he really wanted to. But he doesn't want to stop me, I know he doesn't. My lips part, tongue slipping out to faintly trace the curve of his bellybutton. His entire stomach shudders, lean muscles flexing and body tightening.

"Matt…" His voice is low—a warning now.

I ignore him, leaning in further. My nose touches the cream, wet and cold, while my tongue dips into his belly button. I hear Mello suck a breath in through his teeth. My fingers are climbing higher up under his boxers, and I breathe something like a moan when his fingers thread into my hair.

Then I nearly fall out of my chair when he yanks my head back and steps away. He's glaring at me. "I didn't say you could do that." He says, voice rough.

I'm a loss. He seemed to like it a moment ago… I look down at my lap, the towel around my waist a little skewed. "Sorry." I mumble.

Mello sighs. "Now is not the time for that. Eat your sandwich. I'm going to take care of your wounds while you eat."

I turn back to my plate, picking up the glass of orange juice and taking a drink. I nearly spit it out. "What the hell is in that?" I demand, spluttering. It took me off guard, okay?

"Orange juice." Mello says while winding some bandages loosely around his stomach—presumably so he doesn't get burn cream all over his clothes. Once wrapped, he picks up his borrowed pants and pulls them on. "Oh, and I put some whiskey in there too."

"It tastes horrible!" I cry.

"Stop being so dramatic. It'll help the pain and you'll be able to sleep before we leave here."

"I can't sleep! What if the people who own this house come back while we're still here?"

"We have at least two hours, trust me."

I take a vicious bite of my sandwich. "I hate how you pretend to know everything."

Mello smirks. "I do know everything."

"You don't know how to keep us away from people who want to _kill _us!"

"Hey, we're both still alive, aren't we? I think I'm doing a pretty good job where our lives are concerned. Just chill out and eat, will you? You talk way too much."

I take another bite of sandwich, pointedly not eating the crust he'd put on my plate. I'm glaring down at my food. Mello pulls up a stool beside me, starting to unwind the bandage on my arm. "Thanks." I mumble into my sandwich.

"You're welcome." He stands to throw away the soiled dressing.

"Not just for this. For not, you know, letting me die or leaving me behind or something."

Mello smirks as he comes back to stand beside me. "Don't worry about it." He swipes the end of my nose with his thumb—I'd totally forgotten the burn cream there.

I blush and avert by gaze as he chuckles. He sits down beside me, starting to wrap my arm for the second time.

* * *

_AN: Sorry Matt, what color is his hair again? Haha. I apologize for my absence these last few weeks, this update is long overdue! I was on vacation, then getting settled in my new apartment and I was recently assigned more hours at work. But enough excuses! =P For Hire seems to be going slower than Tinted Gold, probably because I'm making the chapters longer and there is more action to play out. I'm sort of out of my element, so bear with me! I hope this chapter lived up to expectations! It was so much fun to write; I hope you loved it as much as I did! There are still a lot of questions that need answering, so stay tuned! _

_Thank you for all the thoughtful, wonderful, encouraging reviews. =D It means the world to me and keeps me writing!_


	6. Five Senses Too Many

_Warnings for this chapter: Language._

* * *

_To make things right  
You need someone to hold you tight  
And you'll think love is to pray  
But I'm sorry I don't pray that way  
_-Tainted Love by Soft Cell

* * *

My forearms and stomach are wrapped in 1,000 thread count white Egyptian cotton sheets. (I didn't even know what a thread count _was_ before reading the label on the bag.) Mello has cut three sheets into strips and packed them up in a backpack, among other things he thinks we might need.

"They could come home soon." I press him, sitting down heavily on the couch.

"You don't have to worry about a thing." If there's an award for being vague, he'd get it hands down.

I'm too tired to keep dealing with his shit; my head is killing me. I hit the decorative pillow on couch with my fist to get it fluffed just right, adjusting it against the armrest before reclining against it. My borrowed jeans and t-shirt don't make for the best sleepwear, but I'm not picky. They fit me a lot better than they fit Mello.

Whenever Mello crosses my vision—he's walking around the house stealing things—I follow him with my gaze. That whiskey and orange juice has made me rather sleepy so I stay put. Anyways, it's fun to watch him from my sideways position.

"You're full of shit." I mumble. I've kind of forgotten what we were talking about anyways.

I can practically hear him roll his eyes. Jackass.

Mello yells something from the kitchen that I don't hear so I push myself up, turning towards the kitchen without sitting up. "What?" I yell back.

Mello reenters the living room. "I said, are you going to sleep now?" He stops, just staring at me. His black eyebrows knit into something like a concerned expression.

I try to ignore how unnerving it is being under his gaze. "Yeah, I'll just take a short nap."

"Wait a second." He's crossing the room, sitting down on the coffee table in front of me. He takes me off guard by grabbing my chin and efficiently anchoring my gaze to his. I swallow hard. "How do you feel?" He asks with a seriousness that makes my back straighten.

"Uh, just tired and achy. That's why I'm taking a nap."

Mello frowns—I guess that wasn't the answer he wanted. Why is he so moody all the time? He told me to take a nap a while ago! "Did you hit your head?"

The question seems to come out of nowhere. "N-No," I stutter, then remember staring up at the sky and the cracks on the motorcycle helmet. "I mean, I was wearing a helmet."

"Follow my finger with your eyes." He commands, still holding my chin, holding up a finger and moving it to the right.

"You're being stupid." I try to push him away and but he's stubbornly holding on.

"Matt," His voice is low and demands my attention. "One of your pupils is bigger than the other one."

"What?" My voice squeaks like a thirteen-year-old boy. "No-no it's not! You're lying!"

"How hard did you hit your head?" He asks—why is he being so serious? This is nuts!

"I was wearing a helmet!" I cry again.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Everything hurts!" He's lying to me. One of my pupils isn't bigger than the other, that doesn't happen.

"Do you remember falling off the bike?"

"N-No. Stop asking so many questions!" I don't want to admit it, but I'm close to tears again. I'm beat up and tired and he's being so stupid! "Now go away and let me sleep!"

Mello frowns. "Sometimes people who have a concussion go to sleep and don't wake up."

"I don't have a concussion!" I stand and push past him, spotting a mirror in the hallway and making a beeline for it. Thankfully he doesn't stop me. I step up in front of it, shocked when I see that the pupil of my right eye is noticeably larger than that of my left. I lean in close to the mirror, nearly touching it with my nose; my breath fogs the reflection. I pull down on the bottom lid of my right eye, looking for an explanation for the anomaly. I blink a few times—then I blink harder. It's not helping.

"Matt," Mello's voice is right behind me; I didn't even notice him in the mirror. "You're kind of a mess…"

"No shit!" I whirl on him, tears clouding my vision. "This is all your fault!"

"No, I meant…" Mello sighs softly. "We really need to see a doctor. This could be serious."

"Well then let's go to the hospital!"

"We can't Matt; you have a bullet hole in your arm. The hospital is required to file a police report for bullet wounds."

I rub at my eyes with the heel of my hand, first the right, then the left. Mello gently grabs my wrist and pulls the hand away. Great, now he's going to see that I'm crying. But he doesn't say anything.

"You-you…" I don't even know what I want to say to him. "You stabbed me, I hit my head, I got shot…what else could go wrong?" I sob softly. I feel totally helpless. I'm tired, I'm in pain, and there seems to be little hope of getting better.

"Nothing else is going to go wrong." He murmurs.

"You don't know that." I glare at him through my tears, but it's weak anger.

"I know everything, remember?" A ghost of a smile passes over his lips.

I sniffle. "I wanna sleep. I hate you."

"You're finicky when you have a concussion." He muses softly.

"Can you let go of me now?" He obligingly releases my hand and I feel his eyes on me as I walk back to the couch. Everything will be better if I just sleep.

With this in mind, I grab the blanket folded over the back of the couch and lay back down. The decorative pillow has some beading that's digging into my cheek but I ignore it, closing my eyes tight. Like a child, I hope that if I can't see Mello that means he's gone.

Of course that doesn't work. I hear him sigh across the room. "I'll wake you up soon to make sure you're not in a concussed state of unconsciousness." I don't respond, but I hear him cross the room to stand in front of me. A moment later his voice is inches away and I feel his breath on my face. "Hey," Obligingly my eyes flutter open, seeing nothing but the blue of his gaze staring back at me. My breath catches in my throat. "I'm going to fix this. Just trust me."

I swallow, nodding a fraction. Things can't really get any worse, so I guess the only place we can go from here is up. Seeing my affirmation, Mello stands again. "Get some sleep then." He says, then walks towards the kitchen.

I wonder what he'll be doing while I'm sleeping, but the thought doesn't last long. Exhaustion is dragging me down and darkness closing in. I exhale, curling my legs up into my chest. The sounds Mello is making in the kitchen, the cars driving on the residential street outside, all of it fades to a hum in the back of my mind. Like a beehive. It's far away so the bees can't get me, but close enough to hear. As if to say, 'Danger, danger, just outside your reach.'

I don't know what I'm talking about.

Darkness.

* * *

Something—or rather, someone—is shaking me. It's not a jarring, frightening sort of shake. Just more of a, 'Hey, I'm here. Are you there?' sort of shake. I guess. I'm still sleeping, sort of.

I roll my face into the pillow, groaning softly. "Am I dead?" I ask, voice muffled.

"Not yet." Comes Mello's voice, and I imagine he's smiling. I hear him straighten, then say, "He's okay for now," while walking away.

All I can think is, 'Who's he talking to?' but I'm already falling asleep again.

* * *

I must have been sleeping five minutes before I feel that hand shaking my shoulder again. Sleep was so blissful, dark and dreamless, and I don't want to wake up. My eyelids flutter a few times before opening reluctantly, squinting against the light of the room. Mello is there in front of me, squatting next to the couch. I yawn quietly.

"How do you feel?" He asks, voice unusually soft.

"Good, I think." I murmur, starting to push myself up. My cheek is wet—shit, I was drooling. I hastily reach up and whip away the spittle but Mello grabs my wrist. He's staring at my hand, eyebrows knit again. I look at my hand too. It's smeared red.

"I was…drooling blood?" I ask dumbly.

"No—shit." He mumbles, grabbing me by the chin and yanking my head to the side. I groan as the world spins, gripping the couch cushions to keep steady. He pulls down on my earlobe. "You were bleeding out of your ear."

That doesn't even make sense. "Nuh-uh…" I murmur, but he's ignoring me.

"Henry, get over here!" He calls, and my eyes widen. There's someone else here?

Sure enough, a man enters the living room. He can't yet be fifty but his hair is already thinning around the crown. He is heavyset, wearing a pair of pressed khaki pants, a white button-up shirt and a rather bright patriotic tie. I squint—it has an _eagle_ on it.

I look back at Mello, like he's grown another head. "Who's _he_?" This isn't the type of guy I'd expect Mello to hang around with.

"That's Henry. He owns the house." Mello says, while Henry is coming over to take a look at my ear as well.

"Your name is Henry McHenry?" I ask, blinking.

"No, idiot. We just call him Henry." Mello could have been condescending, but instead his voice is low.

After looking at my ear, he and Henry exchange a look and I feel totally out of the loop. "What?" I squeak.

"You really need to see a doctor." Henry speaks up then, his face showing obvious concern.

I look from Mello to Henry and back again. "How do you two know each other?" I ask finally, already forgetting why they're so worried.

"Henry stores the drugs we sell until we have a buyer lined up. It's safer for the Family in case our hideout is raided." Mello's explanation is short and to the point.

I nod a little. "That makes sense. What do you get out of it?" I look at Henry.

He smiles, "A little boost to my teacher's salary."

"What do you teach, government?"

"American history." Figures.

"Okay, can we focus here?" Black-haired Mello says, seeming irritated with the two of us. Christ, I was just being friendly. "Matt needs a doctor—he needed a doctor this afternoon."

"You have that doctor that you went to go see when you were shot." I pipe up, feeling woozy but otherwise pretty good. Except my arm. That hurts like a bitch.

"That's what they expect us to do." He mumbles to himself.

"Who expects us to do that?" I wonder aloud.

"I don't know, the people who want to _kill_ me." Great, now I've made him angry.

"Sorry." I say under my breath, because it's always a good thing to say when you've made someone angry.

"Oh, shut up." He grits his teeth. "Matt, tell me exactly how you feel."

"My arm really hurts." I say with a sigh.

"You should have splinted it." Henry adds. "Every time he moves his arm it's going to break the wound open again."

"Okay, forget the arm for a minute." Mello speaks over the two of us, looking anxious. "How do you feel other than your arm?"

"I feel like I was run over by a truck."

"And your head?"

"That hurts too."  
"What kind of hurt? Like a headache? Pounding, aching, migraine, what?"

"Aching, I guess. It feels like there's all this pressure behind my eyes."

"Okay," Mello turns to Henry. "Can you drive us?"

He nods. "My family will be back from Marilyn's soccer game in an hour though and I really need to clean up the house."

"Fine, you can drop us off. Add any damages to my bill."

"Where are we going?" I ask expectantly. Why are we leaving again? Henry seems so nice.

"We'll go visit some friends of mine. We should be safe with them for the time being."

I'm quiet for a moment. "Can I have a cigarette?"

"No." Mello glares at me.

I slump, like someone just kicked my puppy. "I'm never going to feel better with you in charge."

"Shut up carrot top. Speaking of which, you sort of draw attention with your hair that color."

"Do not." I say like a child, frowning.

"You do. If people are looking for us like they seem to be, you're easy to recognize."

"So're you." I glare at him.

"Dyed hair, dipship."

"You're an ass."

"And you're brain damaged."

Henry clears his throat before I can make an indignant reply. "We should really get a move on." He says, seeming hesitant to interrupt our bickering. "Head injuries can kind of be a time-sensitive thing…he already seems to be getting worse."

"I'm not getting worse." I frown at the thought. "I'm already at rock bottom, aren't I?"

"You're not _dead_—I think that's rock bottom." Mello deadpans. "But Henry is right. We have to leave—now. Let me grab that backpack I threw together. Henry, can you get some hair dye from your son's room? I'll spray his hair in the car. Oh, and he needs shoes too."

They break to go gather their things, leaving me on the couch. What an ass, he didn't assign me a task to do. I stand up, probably too fast because my head spins and black edges my vision. I regain my balance, breathing unevenly. I wipe at my cheek a few more times, but there's no more blood. I'm not getting worse. Ass.

I really need a cigarette. I turn to the end table, which has three drawers. I start pulling them out, one by one, and root through their contents. Note paper, pens, phonebook, magazines, coasters, scissors, address book…no cigarettes. Well shit.

Maybe in the bedroom. Or the kitchen. I turn, taking a step and my shin bangs into the corner of the coffee table. I yell in pain, tears jumping to my eyes. I just can't catch a break, can I? Mello was right, I am a mess.

Speaking of Mello, he rejoins me in the living room, a blue backpack slung over one shoulder. "What happened?" He wants to know.

I lean over, rubbing my injured shin with the hand I can move. My other arm is just kind of there at my side. Like a tail. I always thought tails never did any good. So that's what my arm is like, a useless tail that's just there as an extra something. Like God went, 'You know what would be cool? Giving this thing I made a totally useless attachment.' It's like your tonsils. And some other stuff that you never use that I can't think of right now.

"Matt," Mello snaps his fingers in front of my face, causing me to jump. "What'd you do?"

"I hit the coffee table."

Mello frowns. "Are you okay to walk?"

"I didn't hit it that hard."

"No, I meant…never mind." He turns to look over his shoulder. "Where the fuck is Henry?"

"Here, here!" Henry calls, reappearing with what looks like a spray paint can and a pair of sneakers. He hands me the shoes and I sit on the armrest of the couch to pull them on, first the right one and then the left one.

Mello is watching me silently as I do it all with just my right hand. He takes the can from Henry, nodding. "Thanks. Let's go."

Mello's kind of sexy when he does that taking charge thing. Although it does irk me, too.

We leave out the door to the garage, Mello and I getting into the back seat of Henry's silver Cadillac Escalade. "Where are we going?" Henry asks, meanwhile buckling his seatbelt in the driver's seat. Mello and I don't put on our seatbelts.

"Felix's club on twelfth, do you know it?"

"Sure do." The garage door is opening behind us. It's already dark outside. How long was I asleep? Henry pulls out, starting to drive in the most law-abiding fashion.

"So your daughter plays soccer?" I ask.

I don't fail to notice that while I speak, Mello has moved into the middle seat. His knee bumps mine. What is he doing?

"Yes, it's a city league." Henry says, and I see him smile in the rearview mirror. "Every Tuesday night there's a game."

"I'm sorry you have to miss it."I say sincerely.

"Anything to help out some friends."

"Okay, enough chitchat." Mello cuts in, sounding irritated. "Matt, look down at my lap."

"What?" My gaze darts to his face; no doubt my eyes are widening. "Uhh…"

"Shit, just do it." He growls, so I do.

My head tilts down, looking at…well, at Mello's lap. The jeans do nothing but swallow him up; I can't make anything out. He places his hand above my eyes, pointer finger pressing across the length of my forehead and his palm down. He shakes the can of hair dye. Oh, so that's what he's doing. "Shut your eyes in case I get any in your face."

I oblige, eyes fluttering shut. I hear when he starts to spray, a faint hiss. Then he curses, "Fuck Henry, what is this?"

"What?" Henry says from the front seat, and my eyes open again.

"It's _blue_."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Henry sound sheepish. "I just grabbed a can off the shelf. I didn't think to check the color."

Mello sighs. "Well, at least it's not red. No one will expect him to have such outrageously bright hair." He shakes the can once more. "Close your eyes again."

I do, and the hissing resumes while we drive. No one says anything for a long while.

Finally Mello announces that my hair is finished. He removes his hair from my forehead and licks his thumb. He starts rubbing at the skin around my hair that was accidently dyed in the spraying process.

I scrunch up my nose. "I don't want your spit on my face." I tell him.

He catches my gaze, smirking all the while. "I bet you want a lot of things on your face, spit being just one of my fluids." His voice is low so Henry won't catch our conversation.

I gulp. "You're a bastard." It's a weak argument. I can't believe that in less than twenty-four hours we've reached t his point: sexual innuendoes in the back of a fifty-year-old high school teacher's Escalade. And I was going to kill him earlier. Silly me.

I didn't notice that Henry was slowing to a stop, but he turns to look back at us. "Here's the club boys," He says, before Mello can say anything. Damn it.

I look out the tinted window and sure enough 'the club' is across the street. I've never been much of a partier so clubs aren't my thing. I've only seen this place during the day—The Black Orchid. Tonight there is a line outside the door, and neon lights cast ghastly shadows on the cracked street. Music booms, nothing distinguishable, just a heavy thudding vibration.

"You…have friends here?" I ask, voice barely audible.

"Yeah," Mello is scooting back over to his seat. He checks his hair in the reflection in the window before opening the door and stepping out.

"Umm…" I just sit there, looking at him. "Is this a good idea?"

Henry decides to add, "You know he could have a seizure if he goes in there, right?"

Mello looks at me, "Matt, are you going to have a seizure?"

I blink. "I certainly hope not."

"See? He's not going to have a seizure. Thanks for the help Henry."

Henry just shrugs. "No problem boys, stay safe."

"Because we've been so safe before this," I mumble under my breath, scooting across the seats to get out of Mello's door. He shuts it behind me and Henry pulls back into traffic and drives away. Lucky bastard.

Mello turns to face me. The lights behind him outline his black hair in bright green. "Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut." Mello says seriously. "Follow my lead. These people are our best bet to get you fixed up."

"Great." I swallow hard, but nod regardless.

"Good." Mello turns and walks across the street. I scramble after him, trying not to look as beat up as I feel. My headache is getting worse.

He completely bypasses the line, walking up to the bouncer like he owns the place. "Woah there," The man guarding the door stops Mello with an outstretched arm. "Gotta be twenty-one to get in here."

Mello looks up at the man, and I imagine that his eyes are flashing in the glow of neon lights. Something clicks in the bouncer's mind, because he suddenly straightens. "Mello! I didn't—I didn't recognize you."

"I'm trying out a new look." He says, voice low.

"Yeah, nice, great," The bouncer nods, stumbling over his words. "Go on in."

"The blue haired one is with me." Mello adds, and as I pass the bouncer I give a weak smile. He just raises an eyebrow at me. God, I must look awful with my hair like this. I still haven't seen it.

Then we step into the club and the vibrations I felt on the street suddenly become booming, toneless noise. Maybe it's music but it's so _loud_. It feels like my brain is throbbing in time with the sounds of the club. Strobes flash every color of the rainbow, casting inappropriate dancing into every light but its true colors. It's oppressively hot in here, like the walls themselves are sweating.

Mello suddenly grabs my hand—presumably so I don't get lost in here—and leads me to the bar. I feel like my head is going to explode when we finally get there. He talks to the bartender—or yells, actually. Even though I'm standing right next to them I can only make out a few words of the conversation. Someone knocks into my arm while pushing past and I gasp in pain. No one hears me.

The bartender is lifting up the hinged section of bar to let us step back behind the counter. Mello releases my hand then, and I follow him and the bartender to a door nestled between the shelves of alcohol. He opens it with a key, and we step inside. He remains in the bar, closing the door behind us. The noise is cut off the moment the door is sealed into place, and I have to heave a sigh of relief. Sound proof, thank God.

We are standing in a narrow, dark hallway. Mello turns to face me, staring into my eyes with that intense, unwavering gaze of his. "Are you doing okay?" He asks seriously.

"I've been better." I murmur, unable to look away.

"Just hang in there. Just a few more minutes Matt."

I don't say anything, just following a step behind him as he ventures down the hallway. He seems to know where he's going. The light grows as we approach what must be the main room of this secret passage.

As we enter the room my gaze is immediately drawn to a large man seated in a black leather chair. Kneeling between his legs is a whore—probably a strawberry*—sucking him off.

"What the f—" Mello elbows me right in the ribs, knocking the air out of my lungs before I can finish. I wheeze, looking anywhere but the scene in front of me. This is the guy who's going to help us? Well shit, I'm dead.

Mello seems totally unfazed. This guy has his dick hanging out and Mello is okay with that? What the fuck?

"Felix." He greets, voice cold and eyes icy.

The man, Felix, smirks. I'm keeping my eyes on his face. He doesn't look like the friendliest of gentlemen; his black hair is slicked back and it makes his sharp features look harsh and cutting. "Mello, it's been a while." He looks down at the blonde between his legs. "Chloe, leave us." He waves her away, and she does as she's told without a word.

I try not to watch as he takes a tissue and wipes himself off before tucking his dick back into his pants.

Standing in the corner is a man dressed in a black tailored suit. His eyes remain straight ahead, not acknowledging us. Security, probably.

Mello's smile is tight and forced. "I've been busy." Is his clipped reply.

"Yeah?" Felix leans back in his chair, lounging effortlessly. "Who's the smurf?"

"Just someone I've hired." Mello replies nonchalantly.

"He a soldier?"

Mello smiles, "Hardly."

"Figures, he's like a rod."

I just look at Mello, then Felix, then back again. "I'm right here."

"Quiet." Mello snaps, and I deflate, looking down at my borrowed sneakers.

"So you in some kind of trouble?" Felix asks Mello, draping an arm across the back of his chair. "The smurf is bleeding through his shirt."

Sure enough, my arm bandage has failed me again and I'm staining my sleeve red.

"I was hoping we could make use of the doctor you keep on staff."

Felix shrugs slightly. "You've always been helpful in the past, I don't see why not. Although you should know, there was an…unfortunate accident. Our usual doctor isn't with us tonight."

"Is that so?" Mello says, eyes narrowing.

"But we do have a veterinarian he could see." Felix smiles, a slimy slick smile.

My mouth is hanging open—I don't even know what to say, words can't even describe how degraded I feel right now.

Felix continues, "Humans and animals aren't all that different. He'll fix you right up, the doctor is an upstanding chap. Anyways, the hired boys are always replaceable." He gives Mello a shrug like, 'What can you do?'

I feel a cold sweat settling between my shoulder blades. I'm waiting for Mello to say no, that I need a real doctor, not an animal doctor. That I'm a person worth more than the usual hired nobody. That I'm worth the trouble.

"We'll see him." Mello says, looking at Felix instead of at me.

I guess he missed the look of total, complete dejection on my face.

* * *

_*Strawberry: A term used to describe a woman who exchanges sexual favors for drugs._

_AN: Thank you all for the support! It's easier for me to make the chapters longer and to take longer between updates. I hope everyone's cool with that. This chapter dragged a little but I feel like we still accomplished a lot between these two. ;D I hope Matty is okay! =( Seeing a vet, poor kid._

_I broke 100 reviews! I'm so happy, thank you all for helping me reach this goal. =D Reviews keep me motivated!_

_P.S. Another great Matt x Mello author, Living in a Fantasy, (who you should all know because she's awesome,) wrote me a one-shot, 'Found You'. She took my idea, ("Oh! Hide-and-seek. And kissing! Lots of kissing.") and made it into an awesome little story. =D Go spam her with reviews telling her she rocks and read her other stuff while you're at it. ^^ I owe her a one-shot too, so that'll be up eventually! Hopefully my next chapter will be up within the week! It should be a fun one. =D Bye for now!_


	7. Who Needs The Sixth Amendment?

_Warnings for this chapter: Strong language and mild violence. Please mind the rating and enjoy!_

* * *

_Looking back at me I see  
That I never really got it right  
I never stopped to think of you  
I'm always wrapped up in  
Things I cannot win  
_-Cold by Crossfade

* * *

My initial shock has faded. Now I'm just fucking pissed. What gives Mello the right to decide my worth? Who the hell is Felix to say that I can be passed off to a _vet_? Well screw them, the both of them!

I'm seething in silence for several minutes; Felix has told his security guard to take us to the 'sick room' and now we're following the man in the suit down another hallway. I'm two steps behind Mello. No one enquires about my health or seems even halfway concerned about me.

"The doctor will be with you in a few minutes." The security man says upon opening the third door on the right and allowing us to step inside. There is a twin sized bed against the wall; it looks like someone has been sick on the sheets more than once and the stains never came out in the wash (if it ever even has been washed). The walls consist of peeling brown paint and there are a few chairs against the other wall. There is a cabinet on the other side of the room—I'm afraid to ask what might be in it.

Since neither Mello nor I say anything in response, the security guard shuts the door again and leaves us alone. I wait a beat before blowing up in Mello's face. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I yell. "I took you for a lot of things, but a soulless bitch wasn't one of them!"

"Shut up Matt!" He's not afraid to get in my face, but I don't back down, even when he continues, "I'm doing you a favor here!"

I laugh bitterly. "Some favor this is! Do I look like a dog to you? A fucking cat, maybe? Or your pet bird? You can't just put me to sleep if I'm broken! I need a real doctor you douchebag!"

"Don't you think I know that?" He snaps. "Chill out before I decide to knock your teeth out!"

"Try it!" I challenge, eyes flashing. "Nothing you do can make me feel any worse! I thought maybe you had a heart but then you go and treat me like shit! I'm not going to just roll over and die you know! I may be in a pretty crap position here but I'm not going to let you walk all over me!"

Mello's eyes are darkening. "Will you shut up for a minute? I hate to beat an invalid but don't think I won't."

"I'm not an invalid!" I scream. "I just want a doctor so I can get the fuck better!"

He hits me. It was a slap, actually, and in hindsight he could have hit me a lot harder and in a lot worse places. "That's what I'm trying to do!" He yells back.

My cheek is stinging. "You cunt." I say, although some of the venom has slipped from my tone. I'm so tired, my arm is killing me and my head is pounding.

"Listen to me." Mello says, pinning me with that unyielding gaze of his. "We're going to fix this, got it? At the very least this clown can fix your arm. Then maybe we can go to the hospital and get your head checked without them asking any questions. Will you calm down now? Christ's sake."

I draw in a shaky breath. I don't know if I want to hug him or hit him. Fuck him for making me so confused.

He opens his mouth to say something else but I never get to hear it because the door swings open and in strides a man in his thirties, dressed in jeans and a plain t-shirt. Dread is settling in my stomach.

"I hear you guys need some medical help?" He says brightly, like we'd just offered him ice cream.

Shit, he's the doctor—or rather, the veterinarian. I was hoping that maybe he was just some random bloke that happened to enter our room on mistake. I'm doomed.

"Matt needs to get his arm fixed." Mello speaks for me, voice a little cold.

"Hurt your arm, eh?" He asks—I think it's obvious so I don't say anything. "How about you take a seat on the bed and take off your shirt then?" He goes over to the cabinet, pulls open a drawer and starts rooting around.

I want to vomit like all the other people who have sat on that bed. I'm going to die. I'm going to die in the secret back room of this stupid club. They'll probably sell my body as mulch. I wonder how much I'll be worth as fertilizer. Probably not over fifty dollars.

I shuffle over to the stained bed, sitting down on the edge with a sigh. I try to take off my shirt, but the motion pulls painfully at my arm and I can't quite manage. Wordlessly Mello comes over, helping me by removing the shirt himself. I murmur my thanks, and he just nods before going to sit against the other wall. He sinks down in his chair, elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand, appraising eyes darting between me and the vet.

"What's your name again?" Mello asks, raising a single eyebrow. I want to speak up that the guy never said his name, but who really cares?

"Dr. William Hopkins." He's pulling on a pair of latex gloves, walking over to me. He starts to unwind the blood-stained bandage on my arm. "So what'd you do?"

"Got shot." I deadpan.

"Bummer." He grabs a chair from beside Mello and pulls it up to the side of the bed and sits in front of me. "Hey! I can see the wall through your arm!" He says brightly.

I must have visibly paled, because Mello clears his throat. "Is it something you can fix?"

"Probably, we should x-ray it though."

"Probably." Mello's voice causes the temperature in the room to drop a few degrees, but I don't think Dr. Hopkins notices.

The vet is still looking at my arm, and he reaches up to pull at the tender skin around the wound. I yelp, nearly kicking him as I jump, tears springing to my eyes.

I didn't even see Mello stand, but next thing I know Dr. Hopkins is thrown against the wall; Mello is holding him there with his forearm pressed against the man's throat. I clasp a hand over my aching arm, trying to blink back the tears, wondering what the fuck we're going to do now.

"What is wrong with you?" Mello demands; I can only see his back from my position across the room but I can guess from his voice that his expression is deadly.

"I was just-just looking at it." The vet stutters.

Mello slams him against the wall again. "Let's shoot you in the fucking arm and see how you like me touching it!"

"That's not necessary," He says with a nervous laugh. "My mistake—"

"What are you, high?"

"No-no! Well—maybe—"

"You were going to fix his arm while jacked up on drugs? You idiot, do you have any idea how easy it would be for me to kill you right now?"

I groan softly, putting my head in my hand. "Can we kill him after I'm better, please? I can't handle anymore blood right now."

I hear Mello give a soft grunt, presumably agreeing. "Get out of my sight," He snaps at the doctor, who picks up and leaves like someone lit a fire under his ass.

I just sigh. "We are so fucked."

Mello scoffs. He walks over to the cabinet where the vet had been rooting around and begins to look through the drawers himself. "We're going to figure this out." He says with confidence.

"And if I start bleeding out my ear again?"

"That's not going to happen. How's the headache?"

"Still there."

"Better, worse?"

"The same."

"Hm," Is Mello's only response as he picks up something wrapped in sterile, paper packaging. He rips it open, revealing a capped needle attached to a vial of some clear medicine.

I eye him as he approaches. He doesn't even miss a beat between putting the cap between his teeth, unsheathing the needle, and jamming it into my upper arm—my _injured_ arm. I would have yelled out if his other hand hadn't snapped down over my mouth, muffling the sound.

I heave a dry sob; my entire body is shaking, my arm burning. But…a tingling sensation starts to spread through the limb, the pain dulling slightly.

Mello spits the needle cap out on the floor, sitting down beside me on the bed and releasing my mouth from his hold. He drops the used needle on the bed to his other side.

"What…did you do?" I ask, looking down at my arm. Mello isn't a doctor, how does he know what he's doing?

"Local anesthetic. I'm going to get you another doctor but until then you shouldn't be in so much pain. Do you want another shot?"

I only wait a moment before responding, "Yes." I smile with some relief. Mello stands to go get another shot from the cabinet drawer. "Why did you have to stab me with it like that though?" I ask, frowning slightly.

"Because I knew you wouldn't trust me to give you some random medicine we found in the back of a club."

I breathe a laugh. "Yeah, that's true."

Mello glances back at me, his lips quirking in a small smile that steals my breath away. He's back at my side a moment later, this time giving me the shot in a more gentle fashion. It doesn't hurt so bad because the numbness is spreading, leaving a pleasant tingling in its wake. I sigh, eyelids heavy, feeling content now that some of the pain is finally abated.

Mello takes the dirty needles and sets them on top of the cabinet, turning back to face me. "So you good?" He asks.

For perhaps the first time since being shot, I look down at my arm. From what I can see, red, angry gnarled skin is torn up at the middle of my bicep. Blood is still seeping sluggishly down my arm, dripping against the sheet I'm sitting on.

"All things considered…I'm good."

The bed creaks as Mello sits beside me again, but I'm still looking at my limp arm. "You know," His voice is low. "An inch or so over and that bullet would have gone through your heart."

"I know." I respond softly.

"You're lucky."

I look up at him then, smiling faintly. "I know." Maybe life isn't so bad. It could be worse, certainly. I can see that now.

Mello catches my gaze, holding it. His head tilts to the side slightly, a lock of black hair falling from his messy ponytail and brushing his shoulder.

Impulsively I reach forward, touching the piece that's out of place but still looks so perfect on him. I'm staring at the lock of hair, rubbing it slowly between the pad of my thumb and pointer finger. I thought it would be soft, but the dye has made his hair stiff. The strands separate and start to soften between my fingers.

I feel Mello's gaze on my face, the intensity of it boring into my skin and making me blush faintly. He leans in without pretense, lips pressing against mine; we fit together perfectly. Neither of us moves for a moment, our mouths simply mesh, my heart nearly pounding out of my chest. I can feel each breath he exhales through his nose as it ghosts over my cheek.

A shiver runs down the length of my spine, and he must have felt it because his hand moves to the back of my neck, lips finally starting to move against mine. It's a slow kiss, but there is an intensity behind it that is overwhelming. I feel as though he's slowly devouring me, taking every part of me, stealing it, and I'll never belong to myself again. My fingers on that lock of hair curl into his scalp, pressing our lips closer.

I don't know how long we kissed, but I can barely breathe when he finally lets our mouths separate. His taste lingers on my tongue, my eyes connecting with his just inches away. His warm hand is still on the back of my neck, keeping the hairs from standing on end.

"You're…not going to stab me again, are you?" I ask on a ragged breath.

Mello's lips—moist from my saliva, yeah, _my_ saliva—turn up into a small smirk. "Did you do something that warrants being stabbed again?"

"Uh," I lick my lips. "Probably."

"You are very interesting." Mello tilts his head to the side again, studying me with sharp eyes. "Do you _want_ me to stab you?"

"What?" I squawk, pulling back completely. "What are you, crazy? Of course I don't want you to stab me!"

Mello chuckles under his breath. "Just thought I'd ask…some people are into that sort of thing."

I just stare at him. Why is the idea of him stabbing me actually kind of sexy? In a sickening kind of way. Oh God, I'm a masochist. No, on second thought, I don't think I'd like that. It fucking hurt the first time.

Mello watches my face as all these thoughts run through my head, and he's grinning. Fucking jackass!

"I wouldn't like it if you stabbed me! I-I would be really mad!"

"Uh-huh."

Why isn't he taking me seriously? I mean it! Frustrated, I glare at the wall across the room.

"Oh God, you're pouting now!" Mello is actually laughing. What a fuckwad.

"I don't pout. I just think you're a jackass."

"Poor little demented smurf." He ruffles my hair, causing me to bristle.

"Go fuck yourself."

He scoffs. "I'd watch your mouth. I don't like it when people talk back."

"But you do!" I turn my glare on him. "That's the only reason you're interested in me, isn't it? Because I talk back? I'm not just one of your little soldiers. I'll never say 'yes sir' or 'no sir' or whatever crap it is you want. I'm not a plaything, I'm a person! You can't throw me away when I get boring and I have thoughts of my own."

"I never said I was going to throw you away!" Mello stands, looking down at me. His eyes are dark and intense and being under that gaze makes me uncomfortable. Like he can see all my secrets. "You don't have the first fucking clue why I'm interested in you."

"You're right." I say, reserved. "I have no fucking clue what you want from me. One minute you offer me up to some screwed up _veterinarian_, and the next we're making out. Not to mention you've stabbed me."

Mello makes a frustrated sound in his throat. "I'm not talking about this right now. You're probably not even getting enough oxygen to the brain."

"I'm hurt, I'm not stupid!" I say, fingers flexing into the sheet beneath me. "I don't want to get fucked over by you…I'll never trust you."

"Good, because I'll never trust you." He practically sneers. "Like how you told me you'd never been to the orphanage? Bullshit!"

My blood curdles in my veins. "That's none of your business." I breathe.

"Like fuck it is!" He's angry now. "You made it my business when you signed up to kill me. Everything about you is my business! I don't get it Matt, I was at that orphanage! It sucks, we don't have parents, boohoo, now get over yourself!"

"Screw you!" I stand up, a little unsteady at first but I catch my balance. "I don't have to tell you anything!"

"No you don't, because I already looked you up!"

I feel the color drain from my face. "You what?" I breathe.

"I did a background check on you Matt—or should I say Mail."

"You have no fucking right to call me that!" I scream. "You're lying; there is no information on me anywhere!"

"Silly Matt, no one can completely disappear. It's impossible."

"Liar." I say through my teeth. "I'm the best there is at what I do. There is _nothing_."

"Obviously not _nothing_." He quirks an eyebrow. "Because on August 4, 2001, an eleven-year-old boy named Mail Jeevas was brought to Wammy's House."

I clasp one hand over my ear; the other arm won't move. I can't tune him out. "Shut up!" I yell.

"But the funny thing is," Mello continues undeterred, voice low, taking a step forward. His gaze is pinning mine and tearing down my walls. "Mail Jeevas was gone the very next day—ran away, apparently. And I can't find a whisper about him anywhere. So my question is, when and why did Mail die and how was Matt born?"

I pinch my eyes closed, unable to look at him anymore. I feel myself starting to hyperventilate. "Just-just shut up!" I can't think about this right now. I've put a total mental block up around my past, choosing to live as though it never happened. Mello's right, Mail is dead. I just don't want to dig up his grave and rehash all the wrongs. I can't do this right now. I'm in pain, I'm tired and I just want all this to be over.

Mello grabs hold of my chin and my eyes pop open, startled and upset to be staring straight into his unyielding blue eyes. "We all have skeletons in our closet," His voice is low. "I don't care Matt. I just want to know you."

"No you don't." He really, really doesn't.

"I do." He insists.

My eyes pinch closed again. "I can't do this right now."

"Fine." His voice is cold and his hold on my chin disappears.

My shoulders slump as I sigh. "Why does it matter so much anyways?" My eyes flutter open to look at him uneasily through my eyelashes.

"It doesn't." He crosses his arms, looking to the side.

I'm quiet for a moment before asking, "When did you look up my past?"

"After we met at the Expo."

"Why?"

"Because I find you intriguing."

"You perform background checks on everyone you find intriguing?"

"Actually, yes." Figures.

"You must have a really good hacker if you found that out, so you don't need me. I thought there was nothing left. Obviously I failed."

Mello scoffs, causing me to furrow my eyebrows. "Stop being so dramatic. There are no physical records of you anywhere so chill out. I've just got a few friends with good memories."

I frown. "Someone remembers me? Who?" I don't mean to sound so accusatory, but that's how it ends up.

"Come on Matt, how many redheaded orphan kids do you think show up at an exclusive place like Wammy's? It wasn't that hard."

"I don't know anything about Wammy's." I admit. "I barely remember it."

"Big place, kind of castle-like? Lots of bastard kids running around."

I shrug.

"So what brought you to Wammy's, Matt?" He tilts his head, gaze appraising me again, studying me like some weird puzzle. Little does he know that most of the pieces are missing; he'll never see the real picture.

"Dead parents. It happens." I say stiffly.

"What happened?" He presses. "Car crash, plane crash? Maybe one of them was never around to begin with?"

I grit my teeth. "Why do you care so much?"

"I have to _know_ things." His eyes glint; I imagine him as the predator and me his prey. Circle, circle…kill.

"You don't have to know everything."

That was the wrong answer because he snaps, kicking the leg of the plastic chair he'd been sitting on. It tumbles over, hitting the wall with a bang. I cringe. "Well fuck you!" He says through his teeth. "You're probably just some boring kid! I don't _care_ what happened to you!"

I think he's trying to convince himself instead of me. I'm quiet for a moment before saying, "You're right. I'm just some boring kid."

My back hits the wall hard, nearly biting off my tongue as the air is knocked out of my lungs. Mello's hands are pinning my shoulders to the wall, his eyes boring into mine. My teeth sink into my lip. "Mello—my arm," I gasp. It's pressing into the plaster and the local anesthetic isn't blocking out _that_ pain. Maybe it's wearing off or something.

"Why won't you tell me anything?" He demands, ignoring my plea.

"Didn't we already establish that we don't trust each other? Why the hell would I tell you anything?" Tears are pulling at my eyes because my arm hurts like hell at this angle. "_Mello_! My _arm_. Get the fuck off!"

"What will make you trust me?" He applies more pressure to my shoulders and my arm is jammed closer to the rough wall behind me.

I want to cry. "Get off of me and I'll think about it." I say, my voice hoarse.

Finally he releases me, and I heave a sob. "Fuck," I breathe, nearly doubling over. "You made it start bleeding again you dick." My voice is drained of anger. I'm dizzy.

I flinch when Mello touches my waist, but he is undeterred. His arm wraps around my torso, helping me back over to the bed. I sit down heavily. There is a trail of blood from the wall over to the bed. My arm is throbbing again.

"Are you okay?" Mello asks, crouching down in front of me. Is he actually concerned?

I look at him through my hair—my head is bowed—and murmur, "No you douchebag. I think I'm going to throw up."

"Put your head between your knees."

"That doesn't work."

"Just _do it_, will you?"

I sigh, putting my head between my knees like he'd said. I'm still dizzy but the urge to vomit starts to dissipate. "I hate you." I mutter to the floor.

Mello sighs faintly, putting a hand on the back of my head to keep it down. Maybe he just doesn't want to look at me. "I got carried away."

"Was that an apology for harassing me?" I ask bitterly.

"No." He bristles. "That was acknowledging that I had bad timing in demanding things from you."

"So that's an apology."

"No—just—ugh." His hand disappears from the back of my head, and I pull up a little to chance a glance at him. He's straightened, staring down at me with unreadable emotion on his face. I don't know if he's angry at me or himself, or both, or if he's just irritated that I'm making things difficult. "Just shut up. Don't throw up on my shoes; put your head back down."

"They aren't your shoes." I remind him, but bow my head again. My eyes close, and I take a deep breath. Okay. I feel okay.

"Either way I'm wearing them and would like them to be free of your stomach bile."

"You're prissy." I mutter under my breath.

"Don't think I won't hit you."

"Yeah, yeah." I sigh. "So can I please get a doctor before I pass out from blood loss?"

"Fine."

I'm staring at his shoes, and he hasn't moved yet. I chance another glance at him, and he's hesitating. "What?" I prompt, tired.

"You're not going to die or something if I leave for a minute, are you?"

"I'll try not to." I deadpan.

"Don't be a tool, I was being nice." He sneers. How _nice_ of him.

"Fuck off and go get me a doctor." I mutter, putting my head back between my knees. Maybe if I eat a steak I'll feel better. Isn't red meat supposed to help if you've lost a lot of blood? Although I'm not too sure how effective that would be if I'm still bleeding and I really don't feel like eating a steak right now. (Where would I get a steak here anyways?) I just need someone to fix my arm and my head. What is the medical procedure for someone with a concussion, anyways? I hate being sick.

"Lie down and take a nap." Mello recommends, taking one step towards the door.

"How long are you going to be gone?" I ask in disbelief.

"How the fuck should I know? We just threw out the only guy in the immediate area with a medical background."

"Well shit." I say blandly.

"Yeah, so now I have to go find someone. Suck it up."

"Maybe you should demand medical papers this time." I say, straightening slowly so I can maneuver up on the bed in a reclined position. It doesn't even gross me out now that the sheets are disgusting. I'm bleeding all over it anyways.

"I don't think you're in a position to be picky."

"Just go away. Your presence gives me a headache."

Mello rolls his eyes. "Likewise."

I turn into the wall slightly so he won't see my small smile. "Don't die out there."

"You either. Corpses smell horrible and I'm not peeling you off of that bed if you die. We'll probably just leave you back here."

"How considerate." My eyes close, but I'm still smiling slightly.

"I'll be back." Is his final farewell, and I hear the door open and close.

I sigh, turning my head into the lumpy pillow. It smells like throw up and semen. And with that, I fall asleep.

* * *

_AN: These two are so dysfunctional, I love it. xD I wanted to get to something in this chapter but it didn't happen. There was too much hostility, pain and passion to work through first. ;D Matt's past will be revealed in the coming chapters. Hopefully we can finally get him patched up!_

_I just wanted to mention that I've worked at a newspaper for the last two years. I know that a lot of people who write are interested in journalism, and if you have any questions you can send them my way. =) I claim no expertise, but I've met many people in the business and have worked in various departments over the last few years (mostly pagination, A.K.A. layout, and reporting). Also if you're looking for someone to beta, I would be happy to help out. The Matt x Mello community has been so great to me, I'd love to give back to you guys in any way I can. =)_

_Thank you all so much for your reviews, they are always read and appreciated. =)_

_Note about the chapter title: The Sixth Amendment to the United States Constitution is related to criminal prosecutions. Matt is suggesting that the mafia is above the law and thus it will never be put to use._


	8. Seven Days to Create the World

_Warnings for this chapter: Language._

* * *

_Lay me down  
Wash this blood off of my hands for me  
While I cry out  
Don't let me die before I go to sleep  
I can't keep going but I cannot start again  
_-Never Will I Break by 3 Doors Down

* * *

"Mail," The voice is soft and nonthreatening. That single word, so familiar yet so foreign to me now, has a melodic quality to it.

My eyelids flutter, weighed down by exhaustion. I make a sound in my throat so the owner of the voice doesn't think I'm dead.

Soft, dainty fingers caress my cheek. They don't seem to mind my evening stubble, tracing my jaw line. "Mail," The voice says again, gently. "You can't sleep all day…you have to go school."

With some effort my eyes open, squinting against the light. The voice and the hand belong to a beautiful woman sitting on the edge of my bed. Strawberry blonde curls frame her kind face, a small smile pulling at her lips.

I blink tiredly. "Mom…" I whisper, disoriented. "I don't…go to school anymore."

Her hand brushes the hair back from my forehead affectionately. "You were always so smart Mail, you should go back."

"I'd…I'd rather stay with you." I murmur.

"You can't stay with me all the time." She laughs softly. "That's not the way to make friends and learn."

I'm quiet for a moment, simply looking up at her. Finally I reach forward, touching one of her curls. It's silky, just like I remember. "Your hair…" I say faintly. It's long, like it was when I was five-years-old and would crawl into bed with her when I'd had a bad dream. Her hair always smelled so good and it would help me fall asleep.

"It grew back; I told you it would grow back." She smiles.

"But last time I saw you…"

"It's been a long time since then, it's had a chance to grow." She grooms my hair with her fingers, fixing my bed head.

I frown, staring into space. "But last time I saw you…" I say again, memories pulling at the edges of my mind but eluding me.

"Shh," She cups my cheek and looks down at me with that same smile. "None of that matters. I just wanted to tell you that I love you Mail. Don't be late for school."

No, this isn't right. Where am I? "Mom," I say seriously. "You're…you're dead." I blink, squinting against the light. It hurts my eyes.

My mother's lips turn down in a frown. She looks hurt. "I'm not dead dear, don't say things like that."

"But you are." I insist, adamant now. "I remember."

It's like she doesn't even hear me. "You're going to be late for school." She says again.

"I don't go to school Mom! I haven't gone to school in almost ten years!"

"The bus will be here soon, I have to go now. Don't forget your lunch."

I start to push myself up to sit. "No Mom, stop. Tell me what happened? Please, stay!" I plead.

It's no use. She's getting up to leave. "Mom!" I shout, but she doesn't hear me.

* * *

"Matt!"

I gasp, starting as I'm ripped from unconsciousness. My gaze darts around the room, finally focusing on a pair of blue eyes that are looking down at me. Mello's eyebrows are furrowed with concern. "Are you okay?" His lips move, asking the question, but it's like he's speaking through a tunnel. His voice echoes in my head. "You're sweating, do you have a fever?" His hand touches my forehead and I flinch. He frowns.

"What? No." I say, breathless, my voice a little husky from sleep. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"Were you having a nightmare?"

"He might be hallucinating." A voice interrupts before I can deny having any sort of dream. My eyes travel past Mello's shoulder to see a woman leaning against the wall. She gives me a slight smile. "A combination of stress, a concussion, and whatever you've self-medicated him with could be making him worse."

"I'm-I'm not hallucinating." My eyes move back to meet Mello's. "Who's she?"

"Your doctor."

My gaze travels back to the woman to study her more closely. She's tall—probably taller than me or Mello—and very lean. Like, super lean. I could probably wrap my hand around the circumference of her thigh. It doesn't look very healthy. Shouldn't doctors look healthy? It doesn't help that she's dressed in acid wash skinny jeans and a Guitar Hero t-shirt. She's _maybe_ thirty. I _hope_ she's thirty, at least.

I look back at Mello, hoping my gaze is communicating how uncomfortable I am with the situation. "She doesn't look like a doctor," I say in a low tone.

"What, do we have a dress code now?" The woman speaks up. "This isn't exactly a hospital." I guess I wasn't talking a low _enough_ tone.

"I know her; she's helped me out in the past. Trust me Matt."

I narrow my eyes at Mello. He's saying that just to irk me. "If she kills me, I hope you know it's your fucking fault."

"If you die, then it's you two's fault, not mine." She says, stepping forward. "I'm not the one who went out and got myself shot." She sends me a pointed look.

My face sours. "I didn't do it on _purpose_."

"That's what they always say." She sighs, weaseling her way in front of Mello, who looks slightly irritated but lets it slide. The woman picks up my arm gingerly; I'm still lying on my back. "It's Matt, right?"

"Right." I study her face. It's all angles and lines. She looks younger than thirty up close. "And you are?"

"You can call me Karen." I simply nod. She continues, "Can you move your arm at all?"

"No, I can't lift it."

She takes my hand in hers, gently pulling on my fingers. "Wiggle this one." She tugs on my pointer finger.

I concentrate on my hand, and the finger twitches successfully. She goes through each of my fingers, asking for the same thing and getting the same result.

"Can you rotate your wrist?"

Mello is watching us from the corner now but I don't look at him, instead trying to move my whole hand. Pain shoots up my arm, my teeth sinking into my lower lip. "No." I say, breathing labored.

"Okay, relax." She gently deposits my arm back on the bed, careful not to cause me any unnecessary pain. I can appreciate that. "It isn't totally wrecked. It's a good sign that you still have some motion in your hand. There's one big bone in your upper arm, the humerus."

"I know that." I deadpan.

Karen rolls her eyes before continuing, "It looks like the bullet went through the underside of your arm, the part closest to your body. It might have splintered the bone and ripped through some muscle. An x-ray will help me get a better picture of what needs to be fixed."

"How are you going to fix it?" I ask, accepting my shirt as she hands it back to me. I begin the slow process of pulling it on, trying not to further injure myself.

"Surgery. If the damage to the humerus is substantial enough I won't be able to just pin it back together; I'll have to insert a plate in place of the bone. Then stitches and a cast. Most likely you'll have to change that a few times until the swelling goes down, and it'll have to come off again when the stitches need to come out."

"How long will I be in a cast?" I ask, feeling my heart start to sink.

"At least six weeks. I'll need to check your progress every week or so to see how fast you're healing."

I swallow. Six weeks is a long time. I can't work with my arm in a cast. "Is my whole arm going to be immobile?" I ask.

"I could put only your upper arm in a cast, but if that's the case I'll need to have you in a sling for about a month. I need you r entire arm stationary while you're healing. You've probably already screwed it up more by having it loose since the accident."

I nod numbly. I won't be able to shoot or type for at least two months, I bet. I'll be totally useless. I have one final question for Karen, and that's, "How old are you?"

She smiles a little. "Twenty-five. Why, does it matter?"

I exhale a slow breath. "Great."

"Don't worry; I'm a licensed physician in the state of California. I took the MCAT when I was sixteen and graduated from medical school when I was twenty-two."

"Of course you did." I look past her to see Mello against the wall. He's smiling faintly; I bet he already knows what I'm going to ask, which is, "So you know each other, how?"

"We're both smart orphan kids." He says lightly.

"Is there a club or something?" I ask blandly.

"What, you didn't get your membership packet? Damn, sucks to be you." Cocky bastard.

Karen clears her throat. "The flirty banter is going to have to wait till later boys; this is kind of a time sensitive situation. I haven't even looked at his head yet."

I frown. "We're not flirting."

"Maybe not, but you'd like to be." She gives me an innocent smile. "Now please, let's get a move on here."

I tilt my head to look at Mello again. "Why the hell didn't you call her to begin with?" I demand irritably.

"I didn't know if she was in town." He grumbles, crossing his arms.

"I'm here at a week-long medical conference." She adds. "You got me out of the oncology seminar, thank God."

"I'm so glad my life-threatening injuries were convenient for you." I roll my eyes.

"Is he always like this?" Karen glances back at Mello. "Or can we add irritability to his list of symptoms?"

"I have a _list_ of symptoms?" I ask in disbelief. They ignore me.

Mello shrugs. "He's been pretty bitchy ever since I met him. I would say this is normal."

Frustrated, I say, "Just because I don't take your crap doesn't mean I'm bitchy!"

"Oookay then." Karen helps me sit on the edge of the bed. "Hold your arm like this against your body, try not to move it. You okay to walk? I don't think this place has any wheelchairs handy."

"Thank God, I'd rather not be further degraded by all this shit." I mumble.

"You should make him take off his pants, just to embarrass him." Mello pipes up.

I send him a death glare. He raises an eyebrow in challenge, quirking a smile. I don't give him the satisfaction of responding.

Karen simply ignores the two of us, going to the cabinet and finding a roll of bandages. She comes back to my side and winds them tightly around my wounded arm. "I'm going to have to put you on some hefty antibiotics since you've just had it open to the air like this."

I cringe as the bandages squeeze and irritate my already hypersensitive arm. "Yeah, okay." I mumble. Sitting up makes my head start hurting again. "We're not doing all this here, are we?"

Karen snorts. "Heck no. This is a dump; we need some real medical equipment. I know of a clinic in town that closes on the weekends so it's your lucky day. We'll have access to the full facility. I won't even make you wait for two hours filling out paperwork."

"They'll let you in?" I ask, skeptical.

"Of course not!" She laughs. "Mello will pick the lock."

Mello shrugs. I have a headache.

* * *

We don't tell Felix that we're leaving and end up sneaking out the back door. I'll be happy if I never see the club owner again; he gave me the creeps.

The clinic Karen was talking about is located about fifteen minutes away by freeway and we drive there in her car. It takes Mello less than two minutes to pick the lock on the side door of the urgent care, the door labeled 'Authorized Personnel Only'.

Once inside Karen turns on the lights in the immediate area, but the place is still eerie because it's so empty. She takes me to radiology, Mello wandering to another part of the clinic after saying something about finding the lollypops.

Karen helps me up on the radiology table. "So have you and Mello known one another long?" I ask conversationally while she's positioning my arm under the sensor. The light makes a cross that intersects over my arm. Oh, the irony.

She laughs under her breath. "I guess so. We grew up at the same orphanage, but he's what, five years younger than me? We weren't close, but we knew one another. Us Wammy kids have to look out for each other."

"Like a family?" I ask softly.

Karen smiles. "Something like that. Stay still, will you?"

She goes into the other room and I hear a whirring sound. I let my gaze travel around the room, studying the posters of human anatomy on the far wall. Karen rejoins me a moment later, the sound having lasted only a few moments. She's carrying a manila envelope. Are those my x-rays? That seemed really fast; maybe I'm spacing out.

"Let's go look at these in the other room. How are you feeling? You're functioning surprising well considering all you've been through."

I shrug a little, allowing her to help me back to my feet. At this point I just feel like I'm going through the motions. "I'm just ready for all this to be over. I'm tired of people asking me how I'm feeling."

"Sorry, it comes with the territory."

With Karen's help we walk one room over and I sit down heavily on the patient table. It isn't covered with paper like it normally would be in a doctor's office. (Maybe because the clinic is actually closed for the night and no patient should be sitting here.)

Karen puts the images of my arm up on the lighted x-ray board. Just as she's about to say something the door bursts open and in walks Mello, a lollypop in his mouth. "Catch," He tells me, about to throw me something but then he seems to think better of it. "Sorry, forgot you're an invalid." He steps up to me, handing me a lollypop with a red wrapper. "I thought you looked a cherry type." He pulls his own lollypop out of his mouth; it's a lovely shade of brown.

I scrunch up my nose. "What is that, dirt flavored?" I ask, struggling to unwrap my own candy with my one useful hand. Finally Mello grabs it back and does it for me. He holds onto the stick, offering me the candy side. I take it between my lips, pleased at the flavor.

"Mine is chocolate flavored." Mello announces, giving his a lick.

"Well it looks gross." I say around my lollypop.

"Yeah, it kind of tastes gross, to be honest." Mello says, which makes me laugh softly.

I totally forgot about Karen, who is just staring at us. "Um, hello, his arm is shattered to pieces. Is now really the time to be talking about who likes what flavor?"

"I actually like nicotine flavor, but I don't think they make that in lollypops." I say thoughtfully.

"Isn't that illegal?" Mello raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know, is it?"

Karen is shaking her head. "I'm putting my neck on the line here; can we please be children later? Matt, how much pain medicine have you had?"

"Um," I think for a moment. "Some of Henry's pain medication for his back, and those shots Mello gave me."

"And I gave him whiskey." Mello adds, trying not to smile.

"With orange juice." I amend. "It tasted horrible."

"You're both hopeless." She points at me. "Stay. Do not move, and don't do anything stupid."

I furrow my eyebrows. "What makes you think I'd do something stupid? I'm not an idiot."

Karen shakes her head. "Mello is a bad influence. You look like a good kid."

"Thanks." I deadpan.

Mello is chuckling, covering it with a fake cough.

She ignores us both, turning to leave the room. "I'll be right back, stay put."

When the door shuts behind her, Mello turns to me. His lollypop makes a smacking sound as he pulls it past his lips, twirling it between two fingers. "So what am I going to do with you after all this?" He asks, seemingly talking to himself. I'm too tired to respond, so I let him continue, "I could drop you off at wherever you live, although I don't know if that's advisable. You've been seen with me, so whoever is after me knows that we're connected somehow and will probably track down where you live."

"We're connected? How's that?" I ask, a little afraid of the answer.

"I don't know, we shared a traumatic experience?"

I snort. "Fuck that, you get shot at all the time and I shoot people all the time. The only traumatic part was my arm nearly being blown off."

Mello's eyes flash; he's irritated with me now. I suck on my lollypop sullenly while he says, "Fine, whatever. What I'm saying is that we've been seen together. That makes it _seem_ like you're connected to me. Anyone smart would use that to their advantage and try to find you."

"So what'd you do?"

"Excuse me?" Even his 'excuse me' has a demanding tone about it.

"To have people want to kill you so bad. What'd you do, kill someone? Take someone's drug business? What? People don't want to kill someone for no reason unless they're just a psychopath."

"I've built up a lot of connections in this business." Again with the vagueness. "A lot of people would benefit from my death because I control so much of the city."

"But you're not even a Boss." I blurt out without thinking.

His gaze darkens. "Titles aren't everything, assassin."

I hunch my shoulders. "You were worth a lot of money, get over it." I mumble.

"I don't blame you for doing your job; I just don't know what's stopping you from finishing it." He crosses his arms.

"You're kidding, right?" I look at him to gauge if he's serious or not. "For starters, I can't move my arm. On top of that I can barely think straight. I'm seeing white I'm in so much pain, and I was stabbed in the stomach. Thanks again for that." I add sarcastically.

Before he can respond the door opens again, and Karen reenters with an armful of supplies. Mello looks away from me. "I'm going to go check the security system one more time and make sure we can cover our tracks."

What's his problem anyways?

"You do that. I'll patch Matt up." Karen agrees, and Mello leaves us.

I can't help but feel like a stone is settling in my stomach. I thought we were, on some level, getting along. But now I'm not so sure. He _really_ doesn't trust me.

"Lie back." Karen interrupts my train of thought. "I can't knock you out completely for this so I want you to look at the other wall while I work on your arm. I'll numb it, but don't look."

I scoot back on the medical table, reclining as she had asked. She pulls a chair up to my side, starting to lay out supplies. I don't know if everything is sterile, or if she really knows what she's doing, or if she might accidently (or purposely) poison me. I don't know. And I really don't care. At this point I just want to get better. I don't have any other options, so I turn my head away, close my eyes, and let her start working.

* * *

"How's it going?" I hear the voice through the layers of haze. It's Mello's voice; it's strange how I can recognize something like that and I've only known him a few days.

"He keeps going out." That's Karen's voice. "I have to wake him up every few minutes, but this is better than him being in pain. The pain medication and local anesthetic seem to have put him more at ease."

"I can hear you guys." I mumble, but my tongue feels thick. I don't know what she gave me, how she gave it to me, or how long it's been. I force my eyes to open, turning my head to look down at my arm. What was once blood and torn skin is now wrapped in a clean blue cast. "Huh." I say faintly. "How…long did that take?"

"A few hours." Karen gives me a tired smile. "I had to put four pins in your arm then stitch it up and cast it. Don't you remember anything? You asked me a few times if I was done yet."

"No…I don't remember." My gaze wanders to Mello, who is standing a few feet back from where Karen is sitting. "What time is it?" I don't know why it matters.

"It's about one in the morning."

I would have thought it was later. Huh.

Meanwhile Karen was getting something from a drawer by the sink, and she returns to my side. "Come on Matt, sit up." She wraps a bony arm around my back and helps pull me up into a sitting position. I'm groggy and it's hard to focus on anything. She shines a light in my eyes and I squint.

"Stop that." I say irritably.

"I think your pupils are returning to a more even size. This is good." She turns out the pin light, finally. I relax, shoulders slumping. My arm feels so heavy. "I need to find you a sling, but first I need you to take this. She hands me a small, clear plastic cup.

I look down in it; it contains a white capsule pill the size of the multivitamins I used to take as a kid. "What is this?" I ask, weary.

"Antibiotics. I'm going to get you a prescription, but luckily they have some sample packs around here so you can take one now. I'm giving you a really hefty dose so it may make your stomach sick but that can't be helped. We really need to make sure your arm doesn't get infected."  
I look at the pill, skeptical. "My arm is good now…I don't want to take this." Maybe logic is escaping me, but my arm feels okay. It isn't infected. I don't need this. Aren't you not supposed to take unneeded medication?

Karen gives me a confused look, her eyebrows furrowed. "Matt, I'm serious. You could lose your arm or even die if that gets infected."

I frown. "I'm not going to die."

"Not if you take the damn antibiotics." Mello cuts in.

"I don't like medicine, I already feel funny." I set down the little cup, rubbing my eyes with my hand.

"It's not that kind of medicine; it's not like you're going to get high off of it." Mello is irritated with me now.

"You don't get it." Now I'm mad too, I guess. But it's kind of a subdued mad; I'm drugged out of my mind. "I don't even know what it is. I don't want to take it. I'm fine." I need control. I feel like the world is spinning a million miles around me, and I have no control. I need to have a say, this is my life. I need to reassert myself; I can't just roll over and let them do anything they want to me. I don't need help. My arm is fixed; now I can take care of myself.

Mello and Karen exchange a glance. He steps up beside the doctor, saying something in a low tone that I can't hear. Karen nods; fuck them and their secret whisperings. I don't need anybody; I've been getting along fine on my own all this time. So maybe I needed some help because of my arm, that doesn't mean I have to listen to them.

Karen turns to me again. "I'm going to go get you a sling, sit tight." She turns and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

I eye Mello wearily. He steps up beside the table where I'm sitting, picking up the medicine cup gingerly. "So you're feeling better?" His voice is a little cold.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I say with confidence that I don't quite feel. "I can go home; you don't have to babysit me anymore."

"Hm," Is Mello's only response. He turns and walks to the sink, his back facing me. When he turns around again, I see that he set the cup on the counter. Good riddance.

He stalks back to where I'm sitting, but before I can say another word he takes me by the chin, pulling my lips down against his. A startled sound escapes my throat, my good hand curling around the edge of the cushioned table.

By taking me off guard he is able to easily slip his tongue past my lips. I moan faintly, hand moving from the table to instead grip the front of his shirt. Mello's hand slips to the back of my hair, the other resting on the table beside me. Somehow, he has maneuvered his way between my legs.

His grip on my hair suddenly tightens painfully; I breathe a gasp just as his tongue shoves something past my lips—something distinctly pill shaped.

I gag, my hand on his chest twisting to try and shove him off. My head thrashes from right to left but he keeps me firmly in place. So I do the only thing I can in this situation. I bite his tongue. Hard.

He yelps, jumping back. I taste metallic, just in time for him to grab my chin again. "Swallow it." He growls, voice thick, eyes flashing dangerously. Blood is trickling down his chin. For some reason, that gives me a bit of satisfaction. "Swallow it or I'm going to beat you until you take it."

I weigh my options for a moment, turning the pill over a few times on my tongue. It hasn't started to dissolve yet because it's a capsule, but it's getting moist. This thing was in Mello's _mouth_. Finally I swallow hard. I can't win in a fight against him anyways.

"Open your mouth—let me see you swallowed it." He demands, wiping his lips with the hand not holding my chin. He just smears the blood on his face. That must really hurt.

I sigh faintly, but open my mouth and let him see that I have indeed swallowed the medicine.

Satisfied, he releases me. "Little fucker," He hisses, opening his mouth to gingerly touch his injured tongue. "You _bit_ me, you little bastard. We're trying to help you." His eyes flash dangerously, promising payback.

"Yeah, and you tricked me." I say sullenly. "It was self-defense."

"Like hell. You spread your legs like a whore."

"I did not!" I squawk.

Mello has meanwhile gone to search the drawers around the sink for presumably a mirror. He doesn't find one if his frustration is any indication. Finally he uses the reflective paper towel holder, sticking out his tongue to inspect the damage. "Fuck, what did you do, file your teeth? I have at least three puncture wounds."

"I guess we're even since you stabbed me." I can't help but be a little snippy.

"Are you saying I should stab you two more times?" His eyes flash. "That way we'd have an equal number of wounds."

"No!" I subconsciously lean away from him, eyes wide. "I have a hurt arm and a concussion. So-so that makes three total. We're even."

Seeming satisfied with my fear, Mello shrugs slightly. "For now I'll let it go, but only because I'm too tired to think of a creative way to hurt you."

"Thanks." I deadpan.

The door opens, and Karen rejoins us with a blue sling in hand. She looks at Mello, lifting up one eyebrow. "Is your mouth bleeding?" She walks over to me, starting to fasten my arm in the contraption so it's immobile against my chest.

"No," Mello mumbles, rubbing his mouth with his hand again.

Karen gives me a questioning look, but doesn't say anything else about it. "Matt, let me clean up your stomach while I have all my supplies out. Mello told me you ran into a knife."

I send him a withering glare. "That's what he said, is it?" He smiles slightly.

"I honestly don't care what you did." Karen says, holding up her hands. "Just let me see it and I'll clean it for you."

"What about his concussion?" Mello pipes up.

"I'm no neurologist, but his symptoms should go away on their own. If his headaches were to get considerable worse, it would mean that blood is putting pressure on the brain. The only treatment at that point would be to drill a hole into his skull and let it drain to relieve the pressure."

I'm silent for a long moment. "You're kidding, right?" I ask, eyes wide.

"No, I'm totally serious."

Mello starts laughing. He's _laughing_.

"No, you're kidding." I say, panicky.

"Matt, I really don't feel like you're at that point. Your headaches would be excruciating. It's just something we should keep an eye on, but I think you'll be okay. To be sure though, we can take a scan of your head and make sure everything is in order."

"Let's cover all of our bases." Mello agrees. "I don't want to have to take him to the ER in three hours because he's having a seizure or something."

"Why would you be taking me to the ER?" I ask, suddenly confused. "Aren't you taking me home after this?"

Mello scoffs. "Like hell I'm leaving you alone after all this shit. You'll probably end up killing yourself on accident. You're stuck with me."

I just stare at him. "What, are you holding me hostage?"

"Yes, yes I am."

Of course he is. But for some reason, I don't mind all that much.

* * *

_AN: Happy Labor Day weekend! I started college classes two weeks ago; it's been a very busy and exciting time for me since I last posted a chapter. I hope all of you who are still in school are enjoying it as well! Chapters will continue to be posted as often as I can manage. I really enjoy writing For Hire and I have a lot of plans for this story. It will continue on what is hopefully a decent schedule. =) The plot took a back seat in this chapter in order to get Matt's wounds treated, but hopefully we'll be back on track with the action next time!_

_I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I haven't been getting as many reviews lately and it is a little upsetting. All the reviews I do get, however, are so kind, thoughtful, and they make my day. Thank you to everyone who has continued to show their support! I really appreciate it. See you in the next chapter—soon!_


	9. Not Your Typical Eight Hour Work Day

_Warnings for this chapter: Language, sexual situations, and violence. Please mind the rating and enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

_If I stay, it won't be long_  
_Till I'm burning on the inside_  
_If I go, I can only hope_  
_That I make it to the other side_  
-Get Out Alive by Three Days Grace

* * *

This clinic should really invest in a more comfortable table for the radiology room. The only people who are sitting on this thing are injured, it should at least be padded or something. (They have the right idea in the patient rooms, but apparently someone had a mental lapse when setting up this room.)

I'm lying on my right side looking out at the room, my left arm cradled carefully against my chest. I yawn. I'm beginning to hate this place. Karen cleaned and bandaged my stomach, saying that it was only a flesh wound, so that leaves my head as the final thing that needs to be examined. It was decided—somehow without my input—that some x-rays should be taken, just to make sure everything is in order.

Karen puts said x-rays up on the board; I don't feel like getting up, so I just remain lying here. I can still see everything clearly in this position so I see no reason to move. Also, I'm tired. Someone should get me a pillow—I'd ask Mello, but he'd probably hit me with it.

There is silence for a long moment, Karen standing between me and the x-rays, Mello beside her. They exchange a glance. Great, I'm probably going to die. Well, it was bound to happen eventually. Too bad I can't die with a damn pillow under my head.

"Matt," Karen's voice is tentative. She turns to face me. "Have you sustained any other serious head injuries in your life?"

"No." I say, and Mello raises an eyebrow.

Karen frowns, saying carefully, "Matt, you have a metal plate in your head."

"Oh, that." Stupid, stupid.

"So you remember the incident where a plate was, you know, put in your skull?"

"Of course." I say, a little insulted.

"You didn't tell me that you had a history of head injuries," Karen continues. "The more times you get a concussion, the more severe the damage can be. When was that put in your head?"

"When I was nine."

"What happened?"

I'm quiet for a moment. I tell a half truth, "I fell down a flight of stairs and hit my head on the banister. I cracked my skull really good."

Mello scoffs. "No one _falls_ down stairs."  
"Don't be an idiot." I frown at him. "People fall down stairs all the time. They're very dangerous, especially for clumsy and uncoordinated people."

"In a normal situation I would agree, but most nine year olds don't bash their head open hard enough to need a _metal plate_ inserted unless someone is doing the bashing."

My eyes narrow at him, but it's hard to be intimidating when I'm lying down. "What are you implying?" I ask carefully, trying to keep my face from giving anything away.

"I'm implying," He crosses his arms, "That someone hurt you."

Silence stretches thick for a long moment. I lick my lips, ready to respond, but Karen clears her throat softly. "How the injury came about isn't necessarily important," She says, seeming to want to pacify us. "It just means that you are much more susceptible to damage in the future. You do have some minor swelling of the brain but I don't anticipate you having any problems. I recommend taking it easy for at least a week; by they should be feeling considerably better."

I exhale through my teeth. What am I going to do sitting around for a week? And the five afterwards that my arm is still in a cast? "Thank you for everything Karen." I say finally, because there's nothing else I _can_ say. She helped me when she didn't have to, and it certainly isn't her fault that I'm going to be bored and useless for so long. This is something like an occupational hazard. I knew the risks when I started in this business.

"Happy to help my friends in the underground crime rings." Karen says with a slight smile. "Matt, I'm going to write you a few prescriptions for pain medication and antibiotics. I know that you guys are lying low, so what's the best way to go about doing this?"

Mello speaks up, "Can't you just give him a bunch of the sample packets or something?"

"I don't think there will be enough, and the clinic doesn't have the type that he really needs."

Mello frowns, turning to me then. "Stand up." He commands, and I have no choice but to obey. I start to push myself up from the table, first into a sitting position then slowly getting to my feet.

Mello steps forward, his hand going around to my back pocket—I jump. "What the hell?" I ask, startled.

He rolls his eyes, holding up my wallet. "I'll feel you up later," He promises, smirking all the while. "But right now I just need your wallet."

"But that's _my_ wallet." I object lamely.

Mello ignores me, opening it and starting to rummage through my cards. He holds up one of my fake IDs. "How often do you use this one?"

"Pretty often." I say, and he puts it back.

He holds up another. "This one?"

"Less often."

"How often does this name appear at your apartment or around town?"

"I use that to buy cigarettes and booze."

"So there are no credit cards or accounts under this name?"

"No."

"Perfect." He hands the card to Karen. "Put the prescriptions under this name."

She takes the card, writing on a pad of prescription paper. I wonder if she knows that she's committing medical forgery and could lose her medical license. She must know, right? There's probably a class on that in medical school or something. I guess she just trusts us, or doesn't care. Who knows.

Karen hands the paper and ID back to Mello, stepping up in front of me again. She takes my chin, pulling a penlight from her back pocket and shining it in either of my eyes. "I want you to take it easy Matt—I mean it. No strenuous activity for at least a week. Try to keep your heart rate below 100. Just rest, eat well, and take the medicine on a schedule."

Mello snorts. I lean to the side so I can look past Karen's shoulder, raise an eyebrow and give him a questioning look. "What?" I demand.

He gives me an innocent smile. "Nothing."

Karen sends Mello a withering glare over her shoulder. "No." Her voice is firm.

I look between the two of them. "Did I miss something?"

"Yes." Mello says, chuckling under his breath.

My jaw comes unhinged when something occurs to me. "You-you don't think I'm having sex with him, do you?" My voice squeaks at the last part.

Karen shrugs. "Doesn't matter to me, just so long as you don't do it until you're healthy."

Mello is laughing, probably because of the look of total mortification on my face. "I'm _not_ having sex with _him_!" I say indignantly. I have standards; I don't screw around with self-righteous mafia boys.

Mello rolls his eyes. "Words mean nothing." Then he ignores me—he fucking ignores me! What the hell? "Karen," He's not even turned towards me now, the jackass. "Can we hitch a ride?"

"Depends on how far you're going; I have a conference in the morning."

"Not far." He assures her.

"Yeah, you're just dropping me off at my apartment." I pipe up. No one acknowledges me—what am I, invisible? They start talking amongst themselves, not consulting me for anything. (They don't even _pretend_ to include me!) I'm starting to feel like I'm a hostage. Although there could be worse captors; the worst Mello is probably going to do is rape me.

And I guess I'd be lying to myself if I said I wouldn't enjoy it.

Fuck my life.

* * *

Every American city I've lived in has had a Super 8 Motel. I think this is one of those cultural things that just goes right over my head. Is this sort of place actually appealing to people? It's cheap, sure, but it's not a so-called bargain or anything. Just sleep outside if you don't want to pay for a bed.

Somehow, though, this is where we end up. Mello asks me to wait outside while he goes into the office and buys a room for the night. He says that a blue-haired teenager (here I object that I'm _not_ a teenager,) with his arm in a cast is just the kind of person someone remembers. Whatever.

Our room is on the second level, the door facing the parking lot. After Mello unlocks the room and turns on the light I stop in the doorway, looking around. It's not horrible, but the thing that sticks out is that there's only one bed.

I clear my throat faintly, but don't mention it. I step inside, shutting the door and locking it with the chain. Mello is going to the other side of the room, checking the window. The one next to the door has the curtains pulled closed, and he does the same to the other window.

"Will you be good if I go out for an hour?" He turns back to me. "I have to get your medicine and buy some shit."

I shrug. "Sure. Can you get some burgers? I'm starving. I haven't eaten since…" I have to think. "God, I don't even know. This morning? No, it's tomorrow so it was yesterday—wait, no—"

"Yes," Mello interrupts me, rolling his eyes. "I'll get us something to eat. Don't leave the room, got it?"

I frown. "Since when are you the boss of me? I'm not one of your minions."

"I'm the boss since I'm the one keeping your ass out of trouble." He smirks. "You'd probably go get yourself shot again if you didn't have me."

"Can you have a little more faith in me, please?" I say, frustrated. "I've kept myself alive and well all these years without getting killed—what makes this any different?"

"You're playing with the big boys now kid."

"You're small fish compared to what I'm used to." I lie.

He knows it, and rolls his eyes. "I'll be back. If you want to take a shower don't get your arm wet. Wrap it in the bag they gave us for ice or something." He steps back to the door, unlocking it and putting his hand on the knob. "Oh, and lock this behind me." He adds, giving me a light smile before opening the door and stepping outside.

I lock it once he's gone, and I'm stuck in this box. The world can't get in and I can't get out. I don't know if that's comforting or upsetting. I choose not to think about it; all this will be over soon. Maybe I'll just take a vacation—there's a novel idea.

I liked Mello's suggestion about the shower so I grab the ice bag and head into the tiny bathroom. The white towels look thin and scratchy and the water takes a while to warm up, but it'll get me clean. I struggle to open the shampoo bottle before putting it on the edge of the tub, then work on getting undressed. The pants are easy enough, but my shirt is nearly impossible. I practically dislocate my shoulder trying to pull it off but finally manage to get my arm out without killing myself. The sling joins my clothes on the floor, and I keep my arm carefully positioned against my chest so to not mess it up further.

The bag for the ice bucket is small—not nearly enough plastic to encase my arm in. I sigh. There's nothing else around the hotel room that appears waterproof, so I give up, pulling up on the faucet stopper to switch the water to the showerhead. It splutters to life and I step over the edge of the tub, keeping the left side of my body mostly out of the line of water. It's not like I'm drenching it; a little water shouldn't hurt anything. At least Karen used tape when wrapping my stab wound, so I shouldn't have to worry about that in the shower.

The water swirls blue around my feet as I hold my head under the stream of water, lines of diluted cerulean streaking down my chest and legs as the hair dye washes out. The water feels nice, but I figure I shouldn't be in here long because of all my injuries.

It turns out to be harder than I expected, washing myself with only one working hand. I manage, but after only a few minutes of scrubbing I'm exhausted. I blame all the medicine Karen gave me.

I turn off the water, pulling back the curtain and grabbing the provided towel. It _is_ as scratchy as it looks. When I rub my wet hair it tints the towel blue, but I feel mostly clean. I pull my pants back on, having to wiggle and shimmy to get them pulled all the way up before fastening them. A beat up, mostly red-headed teenager looks at me in the mirror. I should eat more; I'm too skinny.

It's not even three in the morning according to the digital clock on the bedside table. I feel like I've been awake forever. It has been a very, very long night. I need to catch every bit of sleep I can. I go to the door, unlocking the chain so Mello can get in with his key. I walk back to the bed with slumped shoulders. My arm is hurting me again.

I lay down, staring up at the ceiling with a strange mix of exhaustion and adrenaline coursing through me. I should stay up—I should wait for Mello to get here with food—but I feel weak and tired. At the same time, I'm restless. I tell myself that I'll just rest my eyes for a short while, but that's a lie—it only takes a moment for me to nod off to sleep.

* * *

I start awake, panic overtaking me and body coiling tense to push off—Mello. He's straddling my hips, hand pinning my good shoulder to the bed. He's glaring down at me, his black hair making his blue eyes that much more intense. "You shouldn't have unlocked the door, idiot." He hisses.

I'm shaking, he startled me that much. "I knew you'd be back soon and I didn't want to have to get up and let you in." I mumble. "Get—get off, Jesus, what is the matter with you? This is not the best way to wake someone up."

"No, I'm pissed at you." He snaps. "You have to keep the door locked. This is serious."

"No one knows we're here." I tell him. His intensity is so unnerving. How would anyone know where we are? We're safe. But I don't say that, because he seems edgy and probably wouldn't believe it anyways.

He makes an irritated sound in his throat, leaning down; his hair brushes against my cheek. His gaze pins mine, giving me nowhere to look but his eyes. I swallow. "I know you're not stupid." He says, voice low. There is an unspoken threat running beneath his words, sending a shiver down my spine. "So don't act stupid. Use your brain, Matt. You're not tucked away from the action in a clock tower somewhere or behind a computer screen. This is my world, and in my world people get killed all the time. That is _not_ going to happen to us, but we have to be smart about this."

I manage a small nod. God he freaks me out.

"Good. Now sit up."

"Um…" I smile weakly. "You're kind of on top of me."

"I'm not moving. Sit up." He orders; he does sit back on his knees, though.

I start to push myself up using my good arm, but he grows impatient and grabs me by the bicep to pull me upright. We're face to face again, his hips pressing right against mine. I'm not wearing a shirt. My cheeks flush faintly, looking away from him. He stabbed me. He's a control freak. He always bosses me around. Shit, it's not working; I'm still getting turned on. Fuck him. Fuck him and his gorgeous eyes and his sexy hips that fit right against mine. Fuck…him.

I exhale a shaky breath. Why is this happening? I don't like him, he's crazy!

While I'm mentally berating myself, Mello grabs a bottle of water off of the bedside table, as well as two small bottles of medication. He opens them, shaking one of each pill into his hand. "Give me your hand." He demands, and I let him put the pills in my palm. He opens the bottle of water, offering it to me. "Take those."

He's so bossy.

I put the medicine in my mouth, accepting the bottle and taking a gulp of water. It goes down easy. I eye the other bags on the bedside table. "What else did you get?" I ask, curious.

He rolls his eyes. "You have the attention span of a five year old." He gets off of me, and I can't help but be a little disappointed. "There is McDonalds in that bag there, help yourself. I'm going to go shower."

I frown, taking another drink of water. Mello doesn't even spare me another glance, instead disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door. I hear the water turn on a moment later.

What the hell is his problem? He fucking _sits_ on me and then just leaves! I grab the bag he'd indicated, finding a wrapped cheeseburger inside. I tear off the paper, taking a vicious bite. I glare at the bathroom door. No one has ever made me so angry—and so turned on at the same time. God, I hate him!

I sit for perhaps another minute, eating and glaring at the bathroom door. These mixed messages are killing me. Finally, I can't take it. I need to tell him off—he can't just fuck around and _sit on me_ without meaning something by it!

I will have strength. I will tell him off. He's been a jackass, even if he is helping me, and I'm going to tell him so. I put my cheeseburger down, standing and walking to the bathroom. I throw open the door, expecting to take him off guard but he's not even in the shower—the water is running in the empty tub and there's Mello, sitting on the bathroom counter, fully clothed, leaning back on his hands. He smirks. "I thought you'd wait at least another three minutes."

I just stand there, staring, mouth agape. "W-what?"

He hops off the counter, striding towards me. He grins. "You were going to try to stand up for yourself and put me in my place, right?" His eyes are alight with mirth. "So go ahead Matt, say your piece."

"You-you…" Words fail me. It's like he's picked me up off my axis and ruined _everything_! I had a plan! Not just now—in life! Everything was totally okay until he came along and shook me up like a snow globe. It's his fault my arm is in a cast and his fault that I'm making a fool of myself now! It's not fair, he's just—he's a jerk! So that's what I say, "You're a jerk." But my voice comes out as a croak and saying that is not nearly as liberating as I thought it would be.

His smile grows. "Feel better?"

"No," I grumble.

"Good." Then suddenly my back hits the wall, and he's kissing me. The air is knocked right out of me, his fingers yanking on my damp hair. I almost bite his tongue again, but his hips press into mine and a stifled moan slips past my lips. He chuckles, warm breath ghosting against my lips. "You're so easy."

"Not normally." I mumble, my good hand twisting into the back of his hair. It's still stiff from the hair dye. I pull his lips forward again, crushing our mouths together. He doesn't object, instead he presses me firmly into the wall again. My injured arm is pressed between us, but oddly enough it doesn't hurt me. Maybe it's the pain medication, or the cast, fuck if I know—I don't even care.

"You know," He breaks the contact between our mouths, leaving me panting, but his hand is skimming along the hem of my pants. I squirm between him and the wall; Mello continues, "I don't want to make your heart rate go up or give you high blood pressure." I grunt as his fingers curl into the front of my pants, his knuckles brushing the skin just inwards from my pelvic bone. Just a little lower… "I could always give you tranquilizers." He smiles innocently.

I try to glare at him, but it's hard when I can't stay still and his hand is so close to being where I want it. "Because it would be so much fun if I was limp and passed out." I say, attempting sarcasm; I fail. It's not my fault—he's the one doing this to me!

Mello's hand drops lower in my borrowed pants, his fingers closing around me. I suck a breath in through my teeth. "Oh, I doubt you'd be limp." He muses.

"Fuck you." I breathe, head falling back against the wall. His hand is sliding up and down my length with painful slowness, causing my hips to wiggle against him. His thumb presses down against the head of my erection and I hiss, nails digging into the back of his neck. "Fuuuck," I mutter, eyes pinched closed, cheeks warm.

Then suddenly his hand is gone, and my eyes flutter open, put out. "What?" I ask breathlessly.

Mello grabs my wrist, pulling me away from the wall and to the counter in the small bathroom. "I want you to see your face." He grins. "It's really hot." He steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and undoing the button and zipper on my pants. They slide down a few inches on my hips.  
"You're a pervert." I say, although it's all in jest. I lick my lips, giddy with anticipation.

I see him roll his eyes in the mirror; we're about the same height, I notice. His hand dips back into my pants, wrapping around my member and giving me a firm stroke.

My back arches, pressing my hips into his hand. "Mm," I moan. My good arm reaches around behind me to fist my fingers back into his hair. He may be a jackass, but he's damn good at this.

His lips press against my neck, and I feel the faint scrape of his teeth against my skin. If he bites me, I swear to God I'll rip his balls off. But he doesn't, instead he looks over my shoulder, down my front, and breathes a laugh. "I knew you were a natural redhead."

"Shud'up." I mumble, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Mmm, you even blush like a redhead."

"I do not." I say, cheeks warming further.

"Ha, yeah right." He bumps my cheek with his head so I'm looking into the mirror again. Sure enough, my cheeks are flushed red, the blush extending all the way down into my chest.

"It's not _my_ fault." I say, embarrassed. I swear I haven't blushed like this in years.

"Mhm," He muses, giving my erection another squeeze.

I groan, immediately distracted again. My hips press back into his, eliciting a delicious moan from him. I manage to focus on the mirror once more, just so I can get a look at his face nuzzled into my neck. God he's sexy. I press my hips into his again; this time he presses back, and the front of my thighs dig into the bathroom counter. I gasp, eyes pinching closed.

"Do it again," His husky voice says into my ear.

I shiver, pressing my ass back into his hips. I can feel something hard pressing against me—it doesn't take a genius to guess what _that_ is. His hips rock with mine, stroking me in time with our movements.

I must be fucking insane. I'm dry humping a Consigliere in the bathroom of a Super 8 Motel. And I'm enjoying it. I really am a whore. Maybe if I got laid more I wouldn't have this problem.

"Keep this up and I'll end up fucking you on the counter." Mello says against my ear.

"I wouldn't mind." I hear myself saying, albeit breathlessly. So much for not giving me high blood pressure.

"I bought condoms at the gas station."

I breathe a laugh. "Of course you did." He knew this was going to happen—I kind of hate him now because I feel predictable. Well, I hate him for a lot of reasons. But I also think he's unbelievably good at moving his hips. Speaking of which, I press my hips back hard, making him moan. I smile smugly.

He removes his hand from my pants, much to my disappointment. "Stay." He commands. I roll my eyes once I get my bearings. What do I look like, a dog? But of course he's leaving to go get the condoms from the other room. I have mixed feelings about being fucked in a bathroom—but who really cares? It's sex, he's hot, I'm lonely…it all works out.

I turn around, hopping up onto the counter—as well as I can hop, anyways, I'm still kind of off balance. Mello eyes my new position with obvious approval before stepping back out into the bedroom. I adjust the sling my arm is in, tilting my head to look at my hair in the mirror. It's a mess, but not awful. We should have waited until my hair was dry before getting all hot and heavy. I run my fingers through it, smoothing some of the wild pieces down.

There is a heavy thud from the other room, like Mello tripped. "You didn't stub your toe on the bed, did you?" I call, scooting off the counter so I can stand again. My jeans slide down dangerously low on my hips, so I grab a belt loop to hold them up. I pause. Mello doesn't yell a response.

The back of my neck tingles, a feeling of unease settling over me. I force myself to breathe, quickly zipping up my pants and looking around the bathroom. No window. Not many things I can use as a weapon. I try to pull on the towel rack, but it's bolted into the wall. I'm glad that Mello left the water running; it covers most of the noise I'm making. Why hasn't someone come into the bathroom? Did they take Mello? I'm panicking.

I grab the Kleenex box cover; its thick plastic and square, and not very heavy, but at least I could swing it in a pinch. It would probably do more damage than my fist. I creep along the wall where the bathroom door is, able to see the window next to the main door. It's open, a soft breeze fluttering the curtains. I could dive for it—but what about Mello? Is he still in the room? My gun is out there. If I could get my gun…I take a deep breath. If they were still here, they would have come into the bathroom to get me. They're probably long gone by now. I'm alone. But I still need my gun. I have to figure out what happened to Mello.

Still wielding the Kleenex box cover, I round the corner as fast as I can—and I hit a wall. Or rather, a very large man's chest. I swing with all my might, aiming for his head, but a pair of arms from nowhere yank me back—my Kleenex box swipes air, a rag pressing against my nose and mouth. I yell, but it's muffled, dropping my makeshift weapon with a clatter.

I try to elbow the attacker behind me, but he's too close and I can't get any momentum. I twist and struggle, my injured arm jolting with pain as I tweak it. I cry out again, my eyes starting to water. The rag over my mouth smells horrible—I know what it is. I try to hold my breath, stomping down on the man's foot—but he's wearing boots and my feet are bare.

The man in front of me laughs, stepping around and saying something that I can't hear. Everything is getting fuzzy. Since he moved, I can see Mello lying on the floor. There's blood on the carpet. He's facedown, and he isn't moving. I struggle weakly.

"Mello!" I yell weakly into the sickening chemicals slowly strangling my lungs, and that is the last breath I breathed before unconsciousness.

_

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_AN: Oh geez, he just got hit in the face with plot! I hate it when that happens. I hope this chapter was up to snuff; it felt a little rushed but was very enjoyable to write. =) College has been keeping me busy and I keep getting sick so writing has unfortunately taken the back burner this last month. I hope I can find the time to update sooner—I'm so excited for the next chapter, you have no idea! I'm really curious to hear you guy's theories. =D_

_The reviews have been lovely, and make me so happy to read. =) I will continue to update, I promise! This story is the key to my sanity._

_If you have the time, please go vote the new poll on my profile! It pertains to me writing new stories in other animes. ;D (Although I will say here that I have some things in mind for future Matt/Mello stories as well!) Have a super great week guys! Until next time!_


	10. Over Nine Years Repressed

_Warnings for this chapter: Language, violence, mild gore, and dark themes. Please mind the rating._

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_I'm not supposed to be scared of anything, but I don't know where I am  
I wish that I could move but I'm exhausted and nobody understands (how I feel)  
I'm trying hard to breathe now but there's no air in my lungs  
There's no one here to talk to and the pain inside is making me numb  
_-Changes by 3 Doors Down

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Coming back to consciousness doesn't feel like waking up from a nap. I don't feel refreshed or even still sleepy; instead it's like everything is muffled. My body is sluggish and heavy, and my head is pounding. My tongue is thick and dry, so I chew on my cheek listlessly, trying to get the saliva in my mouth to work again. I can't open my eyes yet.

I swallow, my mouth slowly starting to feel like normal again. My lips are cracked and taste sweet when I lick them, but I'm not dead. Why would I be dead? Oh right, the guys, with the chloroform. Mello, lying on the motel room floor.

I force my eyes open, probably before they're actually ready to be looking around. The world swims, colors bleeding together and everything blurs. I squeeze my eyes shut before I'm tempted to vomit, taking a deep, shaky breath.

I carefully flex the fingers of my right hand—and feel the armrest of a hard chair, not wood but it doesn't feel like metal either. I'm sitting. My injured arm is still pressed against my chest, but something is fastened over it, holding me upright, back flat against the seat. My other arm is attached at the wrist to the armrest. I try to move it, but I'm still too weak and it barely budges anyways.

The only reason I'm still upright is because something is fixed firmly across my forehead, much like the thing across my chest. I don't think I've sat up this straight in years. I try to open my eyes again, taking deep breaths. Calm, calm, calm…I have to figure out what's going on and where Mello is.

"Oh, you're awake." My eyelids flutter, trying to focus, gaze darting to find the origin of the voice. The room where we're sitting has plain white walls, but the floor is cement. Some six feet away is a table where a man is sitting. He has one leg propped up on the other at the calf, reading a newspaper. It looks like he's drinking coffee. This man is wearing a nice grey suit, although the jacket is draped carefully over the back of his chair. He takes another drink from his mug before saying, "I'm so glad you could join me, breakfast is always a lonely affair if you're by yourself."

"Wh…what?" I breathe, voice hoarse. What's going on? I cough weakly. "Where's Mello?"

My captor waves a dismissive hand, "Oh, we'll get to him later. Let's just get to know one another, what do you say? I've been waiting for ages to officially make your acquaintance, Mail."

I just stare for a moment. "What…did you call me?" Things are starting to become clearer as my mind churns double-time to get back to normal working speed.

The man smiles. His teeth are very white. "Mail. That's your name."

Pause. "No, it's not."

"Let's not play games Mail," He says, tone serious, folding his newspaper back up and setting it on the table. "I know everything there is to know about you. Let's not pretend to be people we're not."

My spine straightens further in my restrained position, tensing slightly. My eyes dart to the walls—no windows. Are we underground? Or in a garage? Or a warehouse? No, it's too small to be a warehouse.

The man stands, smoothing his pants compulsively. "I just want to talk, there's no need to be upset."

"Most people who want to chat just call on the phone." I say, voice harsher now.

He laughs. "True, but I doubt you would have talked to me. I knew your father."

I grit my teeth. "Figures that sociopaths with interpretive views of the law would hang out together."

He laughs again, louder this time, leaning against his table. His arms cross over his chest. "You're just like him! I swear, sitting here with you I see your father!"

I pull harshly against the restraints, which probably isn't a good idea because my head starts spinning. "Shut up!" I manage to yell. "I'm nothing like him!"

"Touchy touchy." He muses. "I think the similarities are uncanny. You're both social outcasts, brilliantly smart, and there's the little thing that you both killed people for a living."

I grow cold. "My father was crazy, but he didn't kill people for a living. He was an accountant."

"Is that so? Granted, your means of killing people differs quite a bit, yours being rather direct and his removed, but it's the same nonetheless."

"Shut up, you don't know what you're talking about!" I yell.

"Maybe it's been so long that you've forgotten. Let's take a stroll down memory lane, shall we?" He picks up his newspaper, clearing his throat. "The headlines on June 16, 1997 read, 'Office shooting leaves 19 dead.' " He looks over the top of the paper at me, raising an eyebrow. "Sound familiar?"

My gaze diverts. "No." I mumble.

"Mm," He straightens the paper. "It's a tragic story, really. The receptionist of this firm came into the building, shot every person on the floor and then killed himself. Can you imagine how disturbed that poor man must have been?"

"What's your point?" I snap.

"Oh, but what a crazy coincidence!" He feigns surprise. "This was your father's office, wasn't it? And, imagine, he stayed home with the flu that day. Fate must have been watching out for him there."

My eyes narrow. "So what?" I prompt. "None of this _means_ anything."

"Don't play dumb Matt; we both know that you knew something more was going on with your father." I remain silent, so he continues, "That's what I'd like to talk about: the Death Note."

My eyebrows furrow. "The _what_?" It sounds like a violent children's videogame.

"Hm," The man straightens, pacing within my field of vision. "So maybe he didn't tell you…" He says to himself.

I'm getting frustrated. "Who the fuck are you?" I demand. "And where's Mello?"

"Ah, Mello, Rod's Consigliere. Yes, he is quite intelligent himself. Don't worry, he's here. I have other plans involving him. But let's focus on you right now Mail."

"No!" I scream. "Let me go you fucker! I don't care what dirt you have on my father, I'm done with that! It's over! I'm a different person now and I can't help you! Now let me the fuck go!"

"Language Mail, language." He _tsks_ like he's talking to a child. "Your mother would not approve."

My breath catches before my eyes narrow and I say deliberately, "Fuck. You. My parents are dead. Get over it."

He shrugs. "But you're hardly dead and that's all that matters right now."

"Although I seem to be heading in that direction." I grit my teeth. "Where's Mello? What do you want with us?"

"No, you misunderstand." He doesn't answer my questions, instead picking up his coffee and taking another sip. "The correct question would be: What do I want with _you_?"

I take a few deep breaths. "I. Don't. Matter." I say slowly, because he is obviously stupid. "I'm not going to help you, I don't know anything, I'm not worth anything, so either kill me or let me go. I don't want to play games."

He shakes his head, letting out a sigh. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this."

He starts walking towards me and panic suddenly rises in my throat. "Come to what?" I ask, unable to keep my voice from sounding faint. I guess I'm not in much of a position to be making demands. But instead of attacking me like I expected, he walks around the side of my chair and disappears in back of me.

I hear a door open; I strain my peripheral vision to try to see back there but all I can see are the white walls and his stupid fucking table. I hear the man's voice again, but I can't catch what he's saying. I try to calm my racing heart, focusing on what's happening outside this room. Footsteps approach again—more than one pair this time—and they sound heavy, like boots. I swallow. They're probably going to kill me. Well, I was bound to get myself killed eventually. Hopefully they won't drag it out too long though. I've always imagined my death as a 'I didn't see that coming' kind of moment where it's just over before I realize it. That would be nice.

The footsteps get closer, finally breaking into my vision—my blood goes cold in my veins. Two men, who I can only assume are the same pair that broke into the motel room, are carrying a chair—a chair that Mello is fastened to, just like me. The only difference is that his head isn't tied back, so his chin is bowed against his chest. His bangs are shielding most of his face, but it's obvious that he's unconscious. What I can see of his skin is a sickly ashen color. I can't even speak—I don't know what I'd say if I could.

The two men set Mello's chair down so it's facing mine some four feet away, between me and the table, and they leave without a word. The man in the suit steps back into my field of vision, going to the side of Mello's chair and resting his hand on the back of it, leaning on it. He smiles with those ridiculously white teeth. "He's cute." He says lightly. "I can see why you like him."

My mouth opens and closes before I can muster the strength for words, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I demand. "If you want me then why is he here?" My heart is pounding all the way into my fingertips. Why isn't Mello moving?

"Motivation, of course." The man says, like it should be obvious. I guess it is, I was just hoping his answer would be something else. "Now you are going to answer all of my questions or else your little boyfriend is going to get it."

"I don't know anything!" I cry. "I don't know what you want from me!"

He sighs. "Your father had something that I would like very much. You're my last resort—I think that you know where this thing is, even if you don't know that you know."

My head is spinning. "Wait—what? Are you talking about the thing that you mentioned before?"

"Yes, the Death Note. Do you remember something about it?"

"No…it just has a really stupid name."

"And so do you." He sneers. "Fine, let's have a chat then."

"I don't know anything about it." I insist. I can't give him information I don't have.

His face turns red—he's getting angry at me. Suddenly he pulls a gun out of the back of his pants, pointing it at Mello's head. The safety clicks off, my stomach dropping. "Remind me," He drawls, "How did your father die?"

I'm just staring at Mello's face. He's unconscious. This man can't shoot an unconscious man, that doesn't give him a fair chance. "I killed him." I whisper, but my voice sounds so loud to my own ears.

"_How_ did you kill him?" He presses, seeming apathetic, although he's clicked the safety pin back into place and is replacing the gun on his belt.

"I stabbed him." My voice is barely audible in the empty white room.

"That's right." He pulls something out of his pocket—it's a switchblade. My heart is sinking. "How many times?"

He already knows. "32 times."

"It would be a shame if your friend here met a similar fate, don't you think?" He traces Mello's cheek with the tip of the blade, a caress that draws a thin line of crimson.

My right hand flexes against the armrest. "I'm answering your questions." I say, trying to keep my voice calm. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I don't even know who this man is, and I hate him.

"That you are." The man pulls the knife away from Mello's face, inspecting the drops of red on the blade. "Did your father say anything to you that night?"

"No."

"Liar." He glares at me. "Next time you lie, blondie gets a knife in his stomach."

I swallow. I don't know why I don't want Mello to be hurt so badly, but I idea makes me sick. It isn't fair. He hasn't done anything to deserve this. I pinch my eyes closed, trying to remember. I try so hard but the memories creep up like snakes, hissing and constricting until I can't breathe and I know I'm going to die.

"Hey!" My eyes fly open as my cheek is slapped, the man standing right in front of me now. The slap hurt more than it should have because my head is fastened in place. Seeing that I'm back on earth, the man steps back over to Mello. "Maybe we should go over the events from the beginning. Tell me how that evening started."

I swallow, gazing into space. I really don't want to do this, but I have to. So I start, "I got home from school. It was about dinner time—I walked home sometimes because I wanted to stop at the arcade, so I was always home later in the evening. It was a Tuesday…" I lick my lips. "I remember walking in the front door and I didn't smell dinner. My Mom she…she cooked on Tuesdays."

"Just Tuesdays?" The man pushes my memory forward, not allowing me to leave gaps or stall out.

I swallow again. "Yes. She always felt the best on Tuesdays because she was scheduled for chemo most Wednesdays."

"What kind of cancer?"

"Breast cancer."

"Most women survive that."

I nod the fraction that the restraints allow. "Yeah," My voice is faint. "She was getting better. She was…she was doing really good."

"So you didn't smell dinner." He reorients me in the memory. "What did you do next?"

"I called out for my Mom, but she didn't answer. I…I went down the hall…and…" My voice fades into nothing, repressed memories clawing up my throat and threatening to suffocate me.

"And?"

My throat feels thick; I try to speak but nothing comes out.

He grows impatient, finally making good on his threat and jamming the whole length of the knife into Mello's stomach. He makes a faint noise, like a wheeze, and blood starts staining his front as the man pulls out the knife. I just stare at Mello, tears filling my eyes.

"Tell me what happened Mail!" He yells at me. "Where was your father?"

"In the bathroom with my mother." I whisper, eyes never leaving Mello. _Please, wake up._ "She was dead."

_Blood dripped down the edge of the bathtub, pooling on the floor. Her hand dangled over the edge, nails painted a lime green. _

I remember that the best, the green on her nails. On Saturdays, if she felt well enough, she would take me to the salon with her. Most little boys wouldn't like a trip like that, but I loved when my Mom could spend time with me. She would let me pick out the nail polish color for that week; I picked lime green because it matched my GameBoy.

"She killed herself." My captor's voice pulls me back to myself.

_Bathing in blood, that hand dangling over the edge, pale cheeks and a bald head._

"No." I murmur, not seeing the white room in front of me anymore. "He killed her."

Apparently this is new information to him because his voice sounds surprised when he asks, "But why would he make it look like a suicide?"

I shrug the small amount my restraints will allow. "Who knows how his mind worked? But my mother didn't kill herself." My eyes focus on Mello again. "Can you please put some pressure on his stomach?" I ask weakly. It looks like a lot of blood.

_Blood blood blood._

"He's fine. Continue with the story."

Mello isn't fine. "Please, I can't—I can't focus if he's dying." My voice cracks on the last word.

I start as the man suddenly pushes over Mello's chair; it lands on its side with a loud crack. My stomach drops again. "Ignore. Him." The man steps between me and Mello, looking down at me with a hardened gaze.

I don't say anything for a moment, finally just dropping my eyes. I have to do what this guy says until I can figure out a way to get me and Mello out of here. "So do we have to rehash every gory detail of my Mom's death?"

"No, fine, skip that part. Tell me what your father was doing through all this. What happened when you saw them?"

I exhale a shaky breath, trying to put myself back in that moment. "I stood in the doorway to the bathroom, and at first I didn't understand what was going on. I _did_, but it didn't seem real. My Dad had been sitting next to the bathtub, on the toilet seat, and he stood up when he saw me." I chew on my lower lip, staring at nothing on the floor. "I remember saying, 'What's wrong with Mom, why is she bleeding?' and he…he said my name, then he told me to leave the room, that Mom was sick. I said that she didn't look sick…she looked dead. I…I guess I was hysterical by then, I don't really remember very well. He tried to push me out of the room, but I was screaming at him—I was saying that Mom wouldn't do this to me, that _he'd_ done it. Then he hit me. We were just yelling at one another—that's always what happened, we'd yell, but it was so different that time. He kept saying that she was too good for the two us, and that's why she was gone, that she finally realized how shitty her life was with the two of us. That it happened because of me."

I grit my teeth. "He didn't know shit, he was never there. He was always disappearing, never there to take care of Mom, so I did it. I loved her but he could have cared less. I don't know why he killed her, maybe because he wanted to take the only person who genuinely cared about me. So all that was left was _him_." I sneer, old anger rising as fresh as it had been on that day. You think that old wounds are healed, but really they're festering on the inside. It just takes a little pressure and all that puss and pain comes oozing out.

"He kept saying 'Calm down, calm down,' and saying my name over and over and I was so sick of all of it. He kept saying that we'd be okay, that things would be better, and that he could finally be a father to me. He kept saying how much he _loved_ me, the fucking psychopath. He said that I was old enough to understand, and that things would be okay. But things _weren't_ okay. I was so angry. I just wished he'd leave and never come back."

My captor—I'd actually forgotten he was there for a moment—is leaning against his breakfast table, arms crossed over his chest. "So you killed him?"

I'm quiet for a moment. "That just kind of…happened. But I don't regret it."

"I imagine not. What happened?"

I sigh. It's exhausting remembering these things, and Mello still looks so pale. I need to get through this quickly. "We were in the kitchen, he made me angry and I grabbed a knife off the counter. I was holding it out in front of me, pointed at him—I only had a vague idea of how to use it. I told him to get the hell away from me and he just…" My lips turn down in a frown. "He just started _laughing_. He said that…that I was just like him. And that he was _proud_ of me. That someday I'd thank him for everything and that I was going to do great things someday." I exhale. "He made me so angry…and I killed him."

"He didn't say anything else?" The man presses.

"Not that I remember." I murmur.

"Well think harder!" He yells, and I flinch instinctively.

"If I don't remember then I don't remember!" I say through clenched teeth. "I've never heard of your stupid Death Note so I can't help you! Now let me and Mello go!"

His eyes narrow at me, silent for a moment before finally shrugging. "Fine." He uses the knife to point down at Mello. "He's looking for what I want. You'll help him find it, and give it to me."

My mouth falls open. "W-What? No way!"

"Then why should I keep either of you alive?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. "If you don't help me you'll only be a problem later. I might as well nip that in the bud and get rid of you both."

I swallow. "Fine. Let us go, I'll get it for you."

He chuckles. "No no, it's not that simple Mail. You think I'll let you walk out of here without a bit of insurance? I thought we might reach this point, so I took a few liberties while you were unconscious."

I have this sinking feeling in my stomach, and I feel like I might be sick. I don't say a word.

"There is a device that I had surgically implanted at the top of your spine that will give me your location no matter where you are in the world. Through this device I can release a toxin into your body at any moment that will leave you temporarily paralyzed from the neck down. The toxin won't kill you, but don't doubt for a moment that if you double-cross me I'll come kill you personally." He pulls a phone from his pocket and sets it on the table. "You will call me twice a week for the next month, every Monday and Thursday at 7 p.m. If you haven't made progress in a month there will be consequences."

I can barely comprehend what's happening, I'm so overwhelmed.

"Oh, and one more thing." He smiles. "I wouldn't try to remove that device if I were you…that is, if you don't want to permanently damage the nerves that control all sense of movement and feeling below your neck. So we're clear?"

I just stare at him, shocked. What am I going to do?

He seems to take my lack of reaction as confirmation, because he smiles again. "Good. Let's have a test run, shall we?" I watch as he pulls out his cell phone, typing something into it.

I can only breathe a gasp as something cold seeps into my core, spreading like a disease through my body. My eyes start to tear up; it's less than a minute before I can't feel anything. It's like a total disconnect, surreal and absolutely terrifying.

The man comes back to me, unfastening my wrist from the arm of the chair, then the strap across my chest. His hands are brushing against me; I should feel them but I don't. He squats down, meeting my gaze and smiling again. "Well I'll leave you to it then." He makes to straighten but pauses, glancing at me again. "I almost forgot; don't go thinking blondie will get out of this unscathed if you screw up. I'll finish the job you were hired to do, got it?"

I'm crying. I can't believe I'm crying. "Yes…" I manage to say.

"Talk to you soon Mail." He picks his suit jacket up off the chair, takes another drink of coffee and folds his newspaper under one arm. He gives me a half wave.

Then he just leaves. He just leaves, and I can't move and Mello is still on the floor. I can't feel my legs, my arms, the chair against my back or the floor beneath my feet. I'm crying. I don't know why I'm crying, but there are probably a million reasons I could list. I'm a failure as a human being. My life has just been one screw up after another and now I can't even get to Mello, who's lying mere feet away from me, probably bleeding to death.

I don't know why it matters so much, but all I can think about is these few feet that separate us. I can't stop looking at the way his head has fallen to the side against his shoulder, his cut cheek exposed. His still black hair falls in clumps in his face. He hasn't moved a bit. I can't stop crying.

One, two, three, four…the seconds tick by slower than they ever have, and I count each one as it passes. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Each moment matters and I'm wasting them. He's still bleeding.

Then the tips of my fingers start to tingle. It's a faint glimmer of hope in a dark, dark world. Slowly, so slowly, the tingling spreads up my arms until I'm feeling it in my feet as well. My breathing is sporadic; I'm so anxious to speed up this process. I've counted up to four-hundred and fifty-two.

I still feel weak and tingly, but I force my arm up to pull off the strap holding my head to the back of the chair. I literally fall forward, landing on my knees, barely able to catch myself with my one functioning arm. It starts to buckle at the elbow, every muscle shaking and straining. I breathe deeply, sweat and tears dripping down my cheeks and landing on the cement beneath me.

I start shuffling to Mello, those few feet seeming like miles under my weak limbs. My hand touches the slick pavement first, his spilled blood already cooled against the floor. I struggle to unfasten his wrists and chest from the chair, but without both hands I'm clumsy and uncoordinated. I can barely see straight. Finally he slides the rest of the way to the cement, and I press the heel of my hand into his bleeding stomach in a lame attempt to slow the bleeding. He makes a sound; it's faint, but I hear it. He's not dead—not yet, anyways.

His wound isn't anything like what he gave me; mine wasn't deep. His looks bad, so bad. Why hasn't he woken up? What did they do to him? Who the hell was that guy?

I pull my hand away from his stomach—it's covered in blood—and grope up on the table. My hand closes around the cell phone the man left. I struggle to flip it open, and with shaking fingers I dial the number. I'm looking down at Mello as a voice comes on the line, "9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

I might regret this later. But I'll regret it more if he dies.

"I-I need an ambulance, I don't know where I am, my friend he's—we were kidnapped. Please, hurry, he's bleeding so bad."

I don't even hear what the woman on the phone says, because it drops out of my hand and hits the cement. Maybe it's broken now; maybe I won't have to call that man. Maybe it hung up, and the ambulance will never get here. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

I cup Mello's cheek with my bloody hand. "Don't die." I whisper. "Please don't die."

* * *

_AN: Whew, a lot happened in this chapter! Maybe sometime I'll write a quick oneshot with some firsthand accounts of Matt's past so we can get a clearer picture of what happened to him; all of the crucial information is here but it's hard to get a complete idea when he gives such sporadic accounts. But there wouldn't be any Mello in the past! =( Would you guys still be interested in reading that? Let me know!_

_I know this chapter had a lot of information to take in; I feel like it's one of those connect the dot games where you have no idea what the picture is going to be until you finish. xD Hopefully it was clear, and enjoyable to read! =D I definitely had fun writing it! (Yay, there is plot!)_

_You guys' reviews have been phenomenal; they encourage me to keep going and doing what I love even when I'm sick, overwhelmed by midterms, and all that. You all rock. =) It would make me so happy if we could hit 200 reviews with this chapter—help me reach my goal? I love you all!_


	11. Breaking The Ten Commandments

_Warnings for this chapter: Language and mature situations. Please mind the rating and enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

_Tell my mother, tell my father I've done the best I can  
To make them realize this is my life, I hope they understand  
I'm not angry, I'm just saying  
Sometimes goodbye is a second chance  
_-Second Chance by Shinedown

* * *

"He'll probably be fine, you know. I've seen worse."

"That's reassuring," I murmur to my lap. My hands are pressed between my legs; I'm still covered in blood, despite the multiple offers I've had to receive medical attention or just, you know, go to a bathroom where I can wash up.

"Don't be so down, you already gave your statement, right? Mello's out of surgery, we're just finding some blood to give him a transfusion, and everything should be back to normal in a few weeks."

I glance at Karen out of the corner of my eye. "He needs blood?" I ask, voice faint compared to the chatter of the waiting room. "You can give him mine, I'm O negative. Isn't that like the universal donor or something?"

She chuckles. "Your blood would be about as helpful as giving him a kick in the stomach. You've been drugged out of your mind these last 24 hours, not to mention the trauma you've sustained yourself. You're probably bleeding out or going to get an infection, but I can't say for sure since you won't let me look at you." She sends me a pointed look.

I sigh faintly, looking down at my lap again. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, whatever." She props her feet up on the coffee table, right on top of last month's People magazine. She's still wearing skinny jeans, although she pretends to be professional by wearing a white doctor's coat. She's also adorning a rather official-looking stethoscope.

"Don't you have a conference to be at or something?" I mumble.

"What, you don't want my company?" She leans back in her chair; it creaks in weak, plastic protest. "Trauma is my specialty; no one cares that I took a call for a friend. Anyways, I kind of like this hospital, maybe I'll do a residency here. Have you seen the children's ward? There are dolphins painted on the wall. It's very Sea World-esque."

"What are you doing here Karen?" I ask, sounding irritated now. "You said yourself, Mello's out of surgery—isn't your job done? Go make rounds or go to your conference or _do_ something. Stop just hanging around me, it's annoying."

She frowns slightly. "Listen Matt," She's serious now, "I don't know why you're refusing treatment, but it's probably a stupid reason. I know you lied to the police, but you can tell me what happened. I'm not going to do anything."

"I'm _fine_." I insist.

"Matt, you haven't even washed the blood off your hands. You could have killed someone for all I know—I actually wouldn't put it past you two at this point. So if you don't want to tell me what happened, fine, but at least let me make sure you aren't hurt?"

"I'm not hurt, I just need a cigarette."

It's her turn to sigh. She seems to realize that I'm not going to budge on this. "Let's go outside," She says, "I'll get you a cigarette."

I perk up a little at that, although I still feel like the world is pressing down on my shoulders. "Okay," I agree with a nod. We both stand, and Karen goes to talk to the nurse at the front desk. I head for the automatic doors that lead into the parking lot, standing to the side of them and waiting for the young doctor to rejoin me. She returns with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in hand; I can't help but be impressed. We head outside in silence. It's afternoon by now, and still warm.

I extend my hand to silently ask for the cigarettes, but she shakes her head, "Twenty-feet from the door, that's the law." We keep walking for a moment. I'm exhausted; I feel like I'm dead on my feet.

Finally we stop and I lean against the side of the building. She pulls a cigarette out for me and I take it gratefully, sticking it between my lips before lighting up. I drag deeply, releasing a contented sigh as I exhale. My eyelids are heavy, staring at the cracks on the sidewalk.

Karen watches me through all this, not saying anything.

After a few more satisfying drags I ask, "Do you smoke?"

Her nonchalant answer; "Nah. Lung cancer is a horrible way to die."

"It's worth it, trust me," I murmur, dragging again. I'm quiet for a long moment, and so is she. Out of nowhere I say, "I'm left handed you know."

"Oh?" She sounds mildly interested.

"Well, I'm ambidextrous but I like to use my left hand."

"Your arm will be out of the cast before you know it," She reassures me, although I still don't feel much better.

We're quiet for another moment before she finally says, "You can see Mello, you know. He probably won't be awake for a while, but you might want to get to him before the police take his statement. It would be nice if your accounts matched up."

"Mm," I take another drag on the cigarette. It's almost gone already.

She continues, "You might just want to see him to make sure he's okay."

"You already said he was okay—or not going to die, at least."

She looks irritated with me. "Are you that dense? Yeah, he'll recover from the stab wound, but you've both been through a very traumatic event. It might be good to talk about it, make sure that he's okay mentally." There is an implied 'Make sure _you're_ okay mentally.'

I stamp out the cig before it can burn down to my fingers, gesturing for another one. Karen provides it and I light up again. I am so going to become a chain smoker after all this shit. "Mello can handle himself."

She glares at me. "I swear, you must be emotionally retarded. You like him, don't you? Usually people go see people they like when they're in the hospital."

"Well I haven't _left_," I point out. "I'll just wait until he's awake and stuff."

"You're horrible at this." She says, exasperated.

"Horrible at _what_ exactly?" I drag, exhaling before continuing, "I think you're seeing things that aren't there."

"I think you're denying things that are _obvious_." She looks about ready to throw her hands up and call me a lost cause, but instead she decides to continue, "Listen Matt, I guess I don't really know how you feel about Mello. You should just know that he's alone in that room with one of those freakish thugs outside the door; he's safe, but when he wakes up he's probably going to be upset and lonely. Maybe how you're feeling now. If you're lonely and upset together, maybe it'll make you both feel better."

I raise an eyebrow while dragging. "I'm sorry, who's emotionally retarded again? That didn't even make sense."

She throws up her hands then, just like I thought she would. "Fine, idiot." She pushes the pack of cigarettes at me. "But if you somehow grow some common sense while I'm gone, you know where his room is. Or better yet, grab a doctor and tell them that you've probably stressed your body into a getting an infection. Or better still, find me and I can look at you while we're in Mello's room. Best of both worlds! Or you can just stay out here and smoke like a chimney; it's your life kid."

She leaves me out there, leaning against the building, looking out at the parking lot. I huddle further into myself—even though it isn't cold—and smoke my way through the remainder of the pack. Usually I feel good after a cigarette, but I'm not feeling much better. The blood on my hands is dry and starting to flake off. I hate hospitals.

I don't know how long I stood out there smoking, but it was quite a while. I watched the ambulances and cars come and go, taking advantage of the quiet to just…be. Not think for a while.

But I know I have to go back. I guess the only reason I haven't gone into Mello's room yet is that I'm trying to show this one small rebellion, an exertion of my free will—if there is such a thing. I'm starting to doubt it. I still don't know what I'm going to do, but at this point my options are rather limited. I just need to make sure that both of us are safe.

I go back into the hospital, stopping at the bathroom by the door. I wash my hand and splash some water on my face. My shirt is still covered in blood, but I don't care if people keep giving me funny looks. I head into the hospital, taking the elevator to Mello's floor. What am I going to say to him? I could just keep everything to myself, pretend that nothing is going on…but then I'd be lying. I have to be smart about this. I don't need to figure out everything today. I take a deep breath and head down the hall, recalling the room number that Karen gave me when she first joined me in the waiting room.

Just as she'd said, there's one of Rod's men—or Mello's men, I guess—standing outside the door. Because that's not suspicious. At least he's protected…although I have a feeling the threat isn't going to be so direct for a while. The man in front of Mello's door doesn't say anything as I put my hand on the knob and open it, stepping inside and shutting it quietly behind me.

The curtains are shut, casting everything into darkness and shadow. The hospital bed is in the center of the room, the machines Mello is hooked up to casting a dim light on the blankets. It looks like he's asleep, his eyes closed, head falling to the side on the pillow. The cut on his cheek has been taped over with gauze; I can't see his stomach because he's covered with the blanket.

Don't ever tell him I said this, but he looks a lot less intimidating like this. He looks…small. For perhaps the first time since I've met him, he doesn't seem menacing. There is no tough-guy front. He looks younger and softer.

After standing there for a moment and just staring at him, I feel like a creeper. So instead I step up to his bed, sitting gingerly on the edge. It moves a little under my weight, but he doesn't stir. He looks very pale, especially with his hair still black. Next to the monitors beside his bed are two IV bags, one blood and one a light yellow color.

I look down at him again, studying his face. I reach over to gently touch his uninjured cheek with my fingertips. His skin is soft; I hadn't taken the time to really appreciate that in the bathroom, I was a little preoccupied. He's very handsome, but it's scary to see him so pale and in such a vulnerable position. I didn't even think it was possible for him to be so exposed.

I want to kiss him. It's a silly notion, but I really really want to. Maybe it's because I need comfort like Karen said, or maybe it's because I just want to feel his breathing on my lips to know he's really alive. I don't know to be honest. So I don't think about it, simply cupping his cheek in my hand and looking down into his face. Just one kiss. Then I can get him out of my mind and focus on what I'm going to do next. I need a plan. But first, I'm going to kiss him.

I lean down, pressing my lips to his. It's a soft kiss; both our lips are chapped and I haven't brushed my teeth in a day, but it's nice.

Then, suddenly, I'm looking into crystalline blue eyes. "What are you doing?" He asks against my lips, his voice a little rough.

I blush, immediately pulling back. "Er…" I have no good explanation.

"You reek of cigarettes," He mumbles, his eyes becoming hooded. He looks tired, but at least he isn't yelling at me. Maybe he just doesn't have the energy.

I shift uncomfortably, trying to steer the conversation away from my awkward advances. "How are you feeling?" I ask meekly.

"I've had better days," He says, his eyes shutting completely again. He releases a sigh. "Why the fuck am I in the hospital?"

"I had to call an ambulance; you were hurt really bad Mello."

He grunts. "But what the fuck _happened_?"

I fall silent for a moment. "I don't know, I was unconscious for most of it. When I woke up they were torturing you, then something happened and they just left."

He stares at me then, his eyes sharp and appraising. Shouldn't he be groggy from the anesthesia or something? I look away, not saying anything for a moment. Finally I feel his hand on my arm and I look back at him. My stomach twists. His face is so serious. He licks his lips, and I think he's going to say something, but he doesn't for a moment. Finally, my heart in my throat, he says, "Go get me some chocolate pudding."

I can't help the hoarse laugh that gurgles up from my throat. "W-What?" I ask in disbelief.

"Pudding. Chocolate. Go find some."

I just blink, finally shaking my head a little and smiling faintly. "Sure."

I leave the room, going to the nurse at the desk and asking if we could get some snacks. She informs me that Mello isn't allowed to eat until morning, which I immediately know won't go over well with him. "They're for me." I smile sheepishly. "It's been a long day." She looks at the blood on my shirt, no doubt believing me. I think she wants to say something about it, but something makes her stop. Maybe it's the scary guard in front of Mello's room. She gets me the pudding and a spoon. I thank her, and go back to Mello's room.

As I reenter his attention is immediately on the pudding; he's eyeing the cup in my hand with a hungry gaze. I smirk a little, setting the pudding on the tray by his bed. "You're not supposed to eat yet, you know." I tell him, because he doesn't scare me. Nothing he does at this point can be scarier than what I'm facing on the road ahead.

He scowls at me, meanwhile pulling the cover off the pudding. "Fuck you." That was exactly the reaction I was expecting. It's funny; I barely know him but I _feel_ like I know him. He takes a bite of pudding, licking the spoon clean before scooping another. "So you're an idiot."

I raise an eyebrow at him, unperturbed, leaning against the far wall.

"Let Karen treat you." He says plainly. "And take a shower while you're at it."

"It's not my fault that you bleed a lot." I mumble.

"But it _is_ your fault that you're not getting treatment. Do you really want to screw with your chances of healing and getting better?"

I sigh. "You don't have to lecture me."

"I'm not lecturing. I just want you to know that your idiocy doesn't go unnoticed." He takes another bite of pudding.

I can't help but smile, just a ghost of the action pulling at my lips. He cares. It's unfounded and rough around the edges, but the sentiment is there. Maybe he doesn't really know me, but I like to think that if I was gone he would notice. If I was dead, he might think twice before dismissing my memory. There's a comfort in knowing he cares, even if I am reading too much into his words. I need this sense of reassurance, just for a little while. I'm probably lying to myself, but I don't care. It feels nice.

"I think she should check your head again after looking at the rest of you." He interrupts my train of thought. "I think you've lost your mind. You're standing over there grinning."

"I wasn't grinning." I wipe the expression off of my face, sliding back into the safety of apathy.

Mello just grunts, setting his empty pudding cup back on the tray. "Well get out of my room." He sinks back down in the hospital bed, which doesn't look very comfortable. "Come back when you've been given a clean bill of health and you're not covered in blood."

I roll my eyes. "Fine." I say begrudgingly, but I'm silently thankful that he's trying, in his own way, to look out for me. If only I could do the same for him.

* * *

My cast is red this time. Despite my arm being fully enclosed during the whole ordeal at the warehouse, I somehow managed to pull out three of my stitches and bleed into the old cast. Karen was more than happy to cut it off, resuture my wounds, and put me back in another cast. She then took me to the doctors' locker room, enclosed my arm in saran wrap, and pointed me in the direction of the showers.

"Am I supposed to be in here?" I ask, looking around the empty locker room, paranoid.

"Nope!" She says, walking around and trying the locks on the lockers. (What the fuck is she doing?) "But don't worry; shift isn't off for another 4 hours. No one is going to be in here." She waves me away again. "I won't look while you're naked. Now get on with it."

I sigh, pulling off my pants. (I'm already shirtless, Karen having declared my clothes a biohazard.) I step into the shower room, turning on the water. I take longer this time, carefully soaping up my hair and body, enjoying the feel of the warm water against my skin. I reach up to the back of my neck, skimming my fingers lightly over the tender skin just below my hairline. I count one, two stitches with my fingertips. I think the incision is small, probably not more than two inches wide. I didn't let Karen look at the rest of me, having feared that she'd discover the mystery wound on my neck. I still don't know what to do about the tracker under my skin.

I turn off the shower, stepping out into the lock room, dripping water all over the floor. Karen thrusts a towel into my hands, meanwhile rooting around in an open locker. I watch her with an eyebrow raised, patting myself dry before wrapping the towel around my waist. The saran wrap crinkles, my arm aching faintly. She gave me more medication, but I don't think it's kicked in yet.

"What are you doing?" I dare to ask.

She pulls out a neatly folded outfit, giving me a smile.

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you _sure_ you're a doctor? What happened to your moral code or whatever?"

"I vowed to always put my patients' needs first. This is fully justified."

I shrug one shoulder, taking the clothes from her. I guess whatever it takes to get me something to wear. I'm so tired of all this. I just want to sleep for a week.

Karen gives me some privacy so I can dress. The doctor's clothes she stole consist of a pair of black slacks, boxers, a belt, and a button-up shirt. I don't know if it's better to wear someone else's underwear or go without; finally I just decide to forgo the boxers because it seems gross. I get the pants on, but it quickly becomes apparent that they're baggy and about four inches too long. I roll up the cuffs, and with the belt they should stay up. I don't know what to do about the shirt. I take off all the saran wrap, but I can't exactly stick my arm, cast and all, into the sleeve. I get it on one arm, then call Karen back in. She's able to maneuver me and the sleeve until somehow it fits. I guess it's a good thing the shirt is as baggy as the pants. She helps me button it, because one-handed I don't know how well that'll go over.

"There!" She announces, seeming pleased as she looks me over. "Good as new."

I look down at myself. Bare feet, pants and a shirt that swallow me, one shirt sleeve bulging from my cast…I look like a mess. "I don't have shoes," I point out weakly.

"Oh! I forgot." Karen smiles. "I saved the shoes you were wearing when you came in. They didn't have any blood on them."

"Great," I mutter, watching her go pick up my—well, Henry's son's—shoes off of the bench against the wall. I should have noticed them sitting there before. I sit down, pulling them on without socks. I should feel clean and refreshed, but I feel kind of gross and out of place. I want my own clothes, my apartment, and my video games. I want another cigarette. I want to forget everything.

"I have to go fill out some paperwork, just visiting doctor stuff." Karen interrupts my thoughts. "How about you go get something to eat at the cafeteria?"

"I think I'll go see how Mello is." I say, standing.

"Don't forget to eat." She reminds me before we go our separate ways.

A girl on the elevator is carrying a balloon and a bouquet of flowers. In loopy writing the balloon declares, 'Feel Better Soon!' I smile to myself. I bet Mello would hate one of those. I almost want to get him one, just to make him irritated. These normal emotions help me forget my worry for a while.

I nod to the guard outside of Mello's door, and he nods back. I enter without knocking, but stop as soon as I'm inside. My mouth falls open, shock anchoring me to the spot. "What…are you doing?"

Mello stands in the center of the room, his damp hair back to its natural blonde, but the water and darkness of the room make it appear almost orangish. Tight black leather pants hug his narrow hips, a jacket pulled around his torso. The light from under the door catches on his pants, reflecting shiny, ever-changing patterns as he moves. He's putting on a pair of sunglasses, even though the curtains aren't even open.

He sends me an irritated, 'it should be obvious' look. "I'm getting out of here." He says, seeming to read my mind and stepping over to the window, pulling open the curtain. I catch sight of several water droplets falling from his hair and slinking down the back of his neck, disappearing under his jacket collar.

"You-you got _stabbed_!" I say in disbelief. "You were just in surgery this morning! You can't _leave_!"

"Everything is so melodramatic with you." He turns back to face me, setting his boots apart, sliding his glasses off to meet my gaze. "I'm fine. It's not safe to stay here."

I hold his gaze. His eyes, usually such a sharp, cutting blue, are subdued. Drugged, pained, I don't know. His skin looks paler in the light. Paler than usual.

I swallow. "Okay," I murmur. I can't tell him that it's okay, that we're safe for a while. Or that anywhere he goes with me, he won't be hidden. That I'm putting him in danger. That he should get rid of me now. Protect himself. I don't say any of this. I have time. I have time.

"You look ridiculous in those clothes." He says, sliding the sunglasses back into place. "Let's get out of here."

So despite the loud protests of the nurses and Karen, we leave.

* * *

It goes without saying that I'm going with him. I could have objected, stood up for myself, used my brain, but I don't. Selfishly, I _want_ to go with him.

We leave the hospital in a limo. "How nondescript," I mumble, half to myself, looking out the tinted window. Mello is sitting on the seat across from me, getting himself a soda.

He grunts. "We're going on the offensive. Trust me, this thing is like a tank. We're safe, but we're not hiding. I'm going to put a bullet in that sucker's head."

I smile a little. That would be nice. I hope he's as effective as he is confident. If anyone can do it, it's Mello. But I have information that can help him…I look out the window again. Not yet. We both need time to heal. I need time to think.

Mello's compound appears heavily guarded as we drive up but we don't loiter outside. "You'll stay here, until we figure something else out." He leads the way into the building and down a narrow hallway. I shiver faintly, feeling claustrophobic. There aren't any windows in this area.

"Don't you have a safe house?" I ask, biting my lower lip. Not like he'll really be hidden if I'm with him; maybe he could go without me.

"I have several, but I don't think we've reached that point." He catches the look of disbelief on my face and shrugs a little. "The fact that they allowed us to escape means that there is either a problem within their ranks or they don't need us as hostages. We'll remain on the lookout until we have more information, but I don't want to go run into a hole just because someone's angry with me. If I did that every time there was a threat, I'd never see daylight."

I guess he's used to this sort of thing.

"We'll get you a room to sleep in," He continues. "Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"Take a seat then." We've reached the same room where we were after the Expo. It's empty.

I pause, turning to look at Mello. This is perhaps the first time since we left the hospital that I've really looked at him. His skin is ashen, and I notice he is lifting a hand to touch his stomach. He notices my stare though, and his hand diverts to smooth his pants instead. I frown. "How about I get us dinner? Is there a kitchen or something around here?"

I think he's about to shoot down my offer, but he hesitates. "Yeah, it's just through the hall, to the right." He gestures with his chin.

He must be really hurting, not like I'm surprised. "Okay, I'll be right back." I try to manage a smile, heading off in the indicated direction.

The kitchen is grimy, but I find a box of half eaten pizza in the refrigerator. Perfect. I don't even heat it up; my cooking skills have always been limited but with only one working hand I've got nothing.

Mello is sitting on the couch when I return. I set the pizza box on the coffee table and sit down next to him, about a foot of space between our bodies. "Thanks." He says, subdued, leaning forward to flick open the lid and take a slice of pizza.

I just nod. "No problem." I take a piece as well and we eat in silence.

* * *

Mello puts me up in a room at the compound. It's small, but appears to be clean. The twin sized bed is butted against one wall, a TV standing on a rickety dresser across from it. There's a bedside table and a lamp that fill up the remaining space, leaving only a small area to walk.

I don't know why I'm staying here. I'm going through withdrawals—I don't have my computer, my games, or my cigarettes. What am I doing here? I can certainly take care of myself. I'm not _afraid_. I'm afraid for Mello, maybe, but not for myself. And I guess therein lies the reason I'm here. A certain blonde Consigliere is keeping me here. For whatever reason, I can't stay away from him. I think the worst part is that he knows the affect he has on me. He uses it to get what he wants, and for whatever reason he wants me to stay here. Maybe to keep me safe or to keep an eye on me for other reasons, I don't know.

I turn on the TV and hop onto the bed. It creaks and whines in protest. It's too early to go to sleep. I'm not even tired, but after eating pizza I agreed to part ways with Mello. Maybe some sleep will do him good; he looked like he was in a lot of pain. I still don't know the full extent of his wound or what Karen did to fix it. I just know that he left the hospital too soon, and now he's paying for it.

I prop the pillow against the wall, leaning against it and flipping through channels. There's nothing on—not anything interesting, anyways. I finally stop surfing when I reach Animal Planet. There's something soothing about watching animals kill each other. I settle back and half pay attention to the happenings on the screen. I fall asleep somewhere between a pack of lions ripping apart a zebra and a crocodile stalking water fowl.

I don't dream of a damn thing.

I wake up because the cell phone in my pocket is digging painfully into my hip. I guess it's serving as a reminder that I shouldn't be sleeping peacefully. There are bigger things to worry about—like the reason I _have_ this phone—but they're things I don't want to deal with.

I don't know how long I slept; I don't see a clock in the room. What I do know, though, is that my arm is aching. It's not like a 'I bumped my shin on the coffee table' sort of ache (which clearly I've experienced,) but more of a 'someone is digging white hot knives under my skin' sort of ache.

I drag myself from the bed, borrowed clothes rumpled, joints popping and limbs cramping, and shuffle out of the room. The entire compound is quiet, but I know that there are still people up and around. They're probably outside guarding the place, or hanging out in an area that I've yet to explore.

I wander down the hallway, my sneakers dragging. I never even took them off. I really need my own clothes back. I need my _life_ back.

I enter the living area and stop. Mello is sitting on the couch, leaning his forearms on his knees, staring intently at a medicine bottle placed in the middle of the coffee table. I just stand there for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge me, but he doesn't move.

"Um…" I clear my throat softly. "Everything okay…?"

"You need pain medicine." He doesn't even phrase it as a question as his gaze flickers over to me.

I blink, startled. "Yeah, kind of."

"Have some then."

I hesitantly step forward, picking up the bottle and reading the label. Narcotics, but nothing too strong. "So what are you doing?" I ask, meanwhile struggling to twist open the childproof lid with only one hand. I end up holding it against my thigh, pressing down and twisting my hand to the side. This is a successful technique because the bottle opens, and I'm able to shake a pill the coffee table. I pick it up and swallow it dry, recapping the bottle and setting it back in its place on the table.

Mello sighs, sitting back against the couch cushions. "I can't have any more pain medication for two hours."

"Oh," I say softly, waiting a beat before moving around to sit beside him on the couch. "Have you tried sleeping?"

"Yeah." I guess that means he's in too much pain to sleep.

"You should just take some more," I offer, smiling weakly. "Two hours it's _that_ early."

"I've already taken two doses too many in the last six hours." He frowns, looking at the bottle with distaste. "But I'm fine."

His tone is so decided, so stubborn; I can't help but smile slightly. He's going to be fine. "Do you want to eat some more pizza?" I ask.

"No, I'm going to bed," Again with that unfaltering resolve. He stands. "Come on."

I stand automatically as he does—I don't know why, I just do. I can already feel the pain medicine taking effect. My eyebrows go up. "Come on…where?"

"To bed."

"My room's that way," I point.

"And now you're sleeping in mine." He sends me a withering look that clearly asks me to challenge his authority.

I consider denying him, but decide against it. I actually don't mind the idea. Regardless, I can't make this seem too easy for him. I would cross my arms in this situation, if I was able to. "You probably snore." I say lamely.

He snorts. "And you'll probably warm your feet on my calves."

"Will not," I insist. "You're probably just trying to rape me!"

He rolls his eyes. "If I wanted to have sex with you, I doubt there would be any objections on your part." My cheeks tinge with color as he continues, "You're the one who was spreading his legs in a motel bathroom, if memory serves."

I glare at him, but it's more out of embarrassment than anything else. I try to think of a comeback but it's late, I'm on pain medication, and I can't think fast enough.

"Come _on_," He says, seeming irritated. He turns, walking down the hall opposite the one where my room is.

I only hesitate for a moment before following after him. He stops at a door on the left, opens it, and I follow him inside. His room is larger than the one I was given. The bed is still made, and I wonder if he's been in here at all tonight.

"Just so we're clear," He interrupts my musings, "I only invited you here because I need a distraction."

"How considerate of you." I roll my eyes. I step on the heel of my sneakers, slipping out of them. I consider kicking them so they make his immaculate room look messy (or just lived in) but I don't end up doing it. It would be too obvious.

"Take off your clothes." He says, looking at me squarely, crossing his arms over his chest.

I let out an indignant sound that, much to my chagrin, sounds like a squawk. "Fuck off!" I snap.

He scowls at me. "Your pants look like they're about to fall off, idiot."

"Well they're fine to sleep in!"

"Matt," His voice lowers a little. He steps up in front of me, eyes pinning me in place. "Take. Off. The. Pants." He enunciates each word, voice barely audible. I can feel his breath on my face; I have to resist a shiver. Damn him and his emotional manipulation.

I grit my teeth. "No." I try to say firmly, but it sounds weak.

"Take them off," He says in that same low tone. I feel his fingers slide along the belt keeping my pants from dropping to the floor.

"No…" I breathe, but with even less conviction than the last time.

His lips brush mine faintly, his fingers curling into the hem of my pants. I _feel_ each word, memorizing the way his lips move as he speaks against my mouth, "Lose the pants Matt."

I swallow hard as he steps back, and begin unfastening my belt. The pants slide off of my hips; I don't even have to undo the button and zipper. I feel his eyes on me as the slacks pool around my ankles.

He smiles slightly. "No underwear?"

"I've been a bit short on creature comforts lately."

"True." His smile grows. "Can you manage to get the shirt off yourself or do you need help?"

"I can do it," I grumble, indignant. I start fumbling with my buttons. The belt was fairly straightforward, but with only one hand the tiny buttons are near-impossible.

"Here, hold on—you're going to hurt yourself." He muses, stopping my hands and instead unbuttoning the shirt himself. He seems in better spirits; I'm glad he isn't focusing on his pain anymore.

Mello gets the shirt off of me with only minor struggling around my cast. Now I'm standing in front of him, naked, something he seems to appreciate very much. It wouldn't be so embarrassing if he was naked too, but he's wearing a tank top and a pair of jeans.

"Why are you blushing?" He chuckles. "I've seen you naked before."

"Against my will."

"Hardly." He smiles.

I scowl at him.

Mello rolls his eyes. "Come on, get in bed. It's late."

Grumbling all the while, I go to the bed and pull back the covers, climbing beneath them. My cheeks are flushed because I can feel his eyes watching me the whole way.

Mello, much to my chagrin, gets into the other side of the bed fully clothed. I glare at him, but I don't think he notices before flipping off the light. We're plunged into darkness, and since I can't feel his eyes on me anymore I feel a bit better.

Silence stretches for a moment, and I wonder if he's going to say something. (How did I end up naked in his bed again?)

"I'm not going to snuggle with you or something like that." His voice breaks the stillness.

I can't help but smile. "I'm not much of a snuggler anyways." I say with as much seriousness as I can muster.

"And I'm getting up in two hours to get pain medication."

"Mm," I say into my pillow. "Fine, but go to sleep. I'm tired."

He grunts, and I feel him turn over. My eyes are still adjusting, so I'm not quite sure what direction he's facing. Currently I'm lying on my right side, my injured arm tucked against my chest. Is it weird that his sheets feel really nice on my skin? My eyelids starting to get heavy.

"Goodnight," He says softly.

"Goodnight," I return the sentiment, resisting a yawn.

I imagine I feel his hand in my hair, but the touch disappears after only a moment and soon I'm falling asleep.

* * *

_AN: I figured that after all the drama happening in the last chapter, we could use a lighter chapter as a pick-me-up. The plot got put on hold so they could get fixed up and unwind a little. I hope everyone enjoyed the smattering of fluff; I made this one extra long since I'm so late on updating! I wish I had more time to write, but until this semester is over I'm going to be a bit preoccupied. But don't fret, come December I'll be doing some serious writing! =) I plan to start some new projects during that time as well._

_The response to the last chapter was phenomenal! You guys have no idea how much it means to me. =) When I'm feeling tired and overwhelmed, I go read some reviews and it lifts me right up. They really keep me motivated to write, and I appreciate all your feedback and support! I have the best readers in the world. =) Have a great day guys!_


	12. We Made It Just Past Eleven O'clock

_Warnings for this chapter: Explicit sexual content, language, and violence. Please mind the M rating and enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

_Oh, got no reason, got not shame  
Got no family I can blame  
Just don't let me disappear  
I'mma tell you everything  
_-Secrets by One Republic

* * *

The warm body beside me comes and goes over the course of the night. I'm only half awake to notice the times he leans over to whisper something like, "I'll be right back," into my ear. I do, however, remember how warm his breath felt against my cheek and the times when his hand would rest against my hip while he slept.

For the first time since all this started, I wake up refreshed. It feels like we've been dealing with this for weeks, when in reality it's only been a few days. It's been mentally and physically taxing, but finally I feel okay. My arm still aches, but I'm not tired.

The bed beside me is empty when I finally open my eyes. The sheets are tangled around my waist, warm and soft against my skin. I yawn, blinking my eyes a few times before slowly pushing myself up. My eyes settle on a pile of clothes at the edge of the bed, and suddenly I'm elated.

I throw off the covers, getting up to attack the pile. It's _my_ clothes. Not borrowed, they're definitely mine. I never thought something so simple would make me so happy. I pull the pair of jeans off the pile, shaking out the shirt underneath them and looking around. There's no underwear. I feel a moment of irritation—no doubt he did this on purpose. Little bastard.

But I don't let it get to me. I pull on the jeans, reveling in the familiarity of something so silly. They fit perfectly. Then I remember, and my stomach ties in knots. The clothes I was wearing yesterday—or specifically the slacks where the cell phone was—are gone. They aren't on the floor where I left them. Panic rises in me, tightening my chest and making my stomach churn. I search around the room, trying to keep myself from freaking out. It's okay. I'm sure he still has it. I'm sure he hasn't gone through the pockets. I'm sure it's here…it's not here.

I dash out of the room without thinking, leaving my shirt behind on the bed. I'm too panicky to care that I'm half naked. I nearly trip over my bare feet as I skid to a halt in the main room. I expected to find Mello sitting on the couch, eating pizza or staring at a medicine bottle, but he's not here. Instead, I find three of his goons sitting around the room. I gulp.

They all look at me when I enter the room, each having a questioning look on their face. One man, sitting over on the couch, has the gull to lift up his hands and clap slowly, once, twice. He smiles slightly. "Look at that, Mello got himself a puppy."

My mouth falls open, my cheeks flushing. "Where's Mello?" I ask, my voice sounding gravelly.

The other two share a chuckle, the one who's speaking leaning back on the couch. He props up his feet on the coffee table. "Listen kid, if Mello wanted you to know where he is, he would've told you. Tough luck."

I grit my teeth, cheeks darkening while my hand clenches into a fist at my side. "Don't fuck with me," I snap. "Tell me where he is!"

One of the other men laughs loudly, my attention snapping over to him. "Looks like Mello needs to keep his dog on a shorter leash—maybe then he'll bark less. Go wait for your pimp carrot top, we have business to attend to."

Anger boils under my skin. When averting my gaze, I see a gun lying on the coffee table. One of the men must have tossed it there; I know from experience that pistols aren't very comfortable on your belt when sitting.

Loud Mouth Number 1 notices the gun the same moment I do; before I can think about consequences, we both dive for it. My hand closes around the handle, tasting success. I won't shoot anyone; I just need them to take me seriously. But I'm celebrating too soon. Before I can level the gun, Loud Mouth Number 1 tackles me to the ground. I hit the floor hard, my cheek grinding into the cement. My cast scrapes against the floor; the jeans protect my knees, but I can still feel the burn. He's sitting on my back.

"You little shit," I hear him hiss behind me.

My arm isn't at the right angle beneath me; mind-shattering pain shoots through my body, and I can barely see straight.

Blindly, I tighten my grip around the handle of the gun I'm still clutching for dear life. My hand is half under my body, the cool metal pressing against my hipbone. I swallow hard. "Fuck off," I breathe. "I'm nobody's dog." I use all the strength I have left to rip my arm free, the safety clicking off as I work solely off of memory and touch. I jam the gun where I know his thigh is—right next to my side—and pull the trigger.

I can barely breathe as several things happen at once. The shot rips through the air, piercing flesh and muscle; the man on top of me lets out a yell, warm fluid gushing over my side. Barely a beat has passed before I'm turned over—more like thrown onto my back—and my head knocks against the cement again. The room spins, and I barely see Loud Mouth Number 2's fist before it smashes into my face and the world goes dark.

* * *

A loud creak is the first thing I hear, followed shortly by footsteps. They grow closer before stopping somewhere closeby. "You awake now?" I know that voice.

I force my eyes open, blinking a few times. The side of my face is throbbing, and I can't open my right eye all the way. I have to tilt my head back, looking up into Mello's face. The only light in the room is a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It casts a harsh light, illuminating the center of the room but leaving the corners are dark. I'm against a wall, sitting on the floor. My legs are extended out in front of me, my one functioning arm cuffed to the wall. No, I'm serious.

Mello pulls a rickety chair up beside me—the only piece of furniture in the dingy room—and takes a seat. He leans forward, his face serious. "You shot one of my men."

I look up at him for a moment, silent. I don't know how, but I manage a faint smile. "He deserved it."

"You don't get to decide that."

I try to shrug, but I can't. Everything aches, my arm especially. It's still against my chest, but moving around so much made it hurt like a bitch. Finally I say, "Maybe you shouldn't have left me alone surrounded by idiots." I murmur. "Why am I chained to a wall?"

He scoffs. "You're not a child, I don't have to babysit you—or at least I didn't _think_ I had to. There have to be consequences in this business; if I let you get away with shooting one of my men then I lose all credibility."

"I didn't kill him."

"That's not the point." He takes hold of my chin, tilting my head up. With the light behind his head, his face is shadowed and I can't make out the details of his features. His eyes are dark as well, boring into mine. "We need to talk."

I'm silent, but I can't help my eyes widening a fraction as he holds up a cell phone in his free hand. My eyes flicker from his face to the phone and back again. I swallow, and I know he can see my Adam's apple bob since my chin is up. "What're you doing with my phone?" I feign innocence.

"Hm," is his only response. Then, to my horror, he let's go of the phone and I watch as it falls all the way to the floor. It clatters on the cement, the sound echoing. When silence falls, I can only hear my labored breathing. "You know, I had the strangest dream." He's still holding my chin, but my eyes are on the phone. "_You_ were there. Go on Matty, ask me what it was about."

I swallow again, my mouth dry. "What was your dream about?" I whisper.

"It was strange," He says again, pulling on my chin so I'm forced to look back into his face. "In it you knew something about the Death Note, and you had a microchip implanted in your neck. On top of that, you were recalling some rather disturbing memories from your past."

I can't breathe. "You…you were conscious?"

"Never underestimate me Matt, that'll be your first mistake." His knuckles skim down the right side of my face, and I have to resist a flinch. The skin is tender, swollen and probably bruised.

"Why didn't you say anything?" My voice is hoarse.

"Why didn't you?"

I swallow. Truthfully, I was scared. But I can't tell him that. "You should have said something."

"I thought about playing along for a while," He says wistfully. "Then I'd be able to see where your loyalties lie…but it was too risky."

"I wasn't going to sell you out." I whisper.

He shrugs a little. "Doesn't matter now, I'll never know."

"But I _wasn't_," I insist.

"Fine." I know he's saying that just to pacify me. He continues, "But I need to know that you're on my side right now. I need to trust you Matt, this isn't a game. Our lives are at stake here. You have to trust me too."

I look into his eyes for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'll try."

"No," He says fiercely. "You _will_. Or else I don't have any use for you."

My heart splutters in my chest. "I will," I agree, voice barely above a whisper.

He kisses me then. My bones are broken, my flesh torn, my skin black and blue, I'm shackled to a wall, and he kisses me. I lean my head forward a little, allowing myself the pleasure of tasting his lips. After everything, I deserve at least this much.

His fingers touch my hair, a shiver running down my spine. The kiss isn't rushed or desperate like the other times we've touched. I don't know why, but this kiss terrifies me. I would have let him have sex with me on the bathroom counter of a Super 8, but I can't let him kiss me like this.

I turn my head to the side, my breathing ragged, my eyes pinched closed. Mello is mostly silent, although I can hear his breathing—not nearly as labored as mine. His fingers drop from my hair, instead skimming down the side of my face that isn't swollen and throbbing.

"We have a lot to talk about," He says softly.

"I'm not good at talking."

His hand takes my chin, turning my face forward again. I reluctantly open my eyes. He meets my gaze, blue eyes intense. "We'll have to practice then." He says, and I blink. Is he being serious?

"Um…okay."

"I have a lot of questions for you…do you have any for me?"

I'm quiet for a long moment, unable to tear my gaze away from his face. I could drown in his blue, blue eyes. "What's your name?" I whisper.

He smiles faintly. "Mihael," He replies, his voice low like mine.

"Mihael." I repeat, tasting the word on my lips. It's smooth, carrying a melodic quality. It's uncommon—it fits him.

His smile grows before he leans into me. I shiver as I feel his lips brush my neck before whispering into my ear, "Say it again."

"Mihael," I breathe, the single word punctuated with a gasp as his hand finds its way between my legs. The flutters that I always feel in my chest when he's around sink lower, into my stomach and coiling lower, lower… "I thought you wanted to talk," I say, my voice rough.

"Later," Is his flippant reply. He stands up out of his chair, kicking it back and instead joining me on the floor. His hand returns my groin, exploring the bulge in my tightening jeans. His head nuzzles against my neck.

My head falls back despite myself, moaning softly. He gives my neck a little bite when I make that sound; I think he approves. I thought that talking was important, but it gradually seems less and less urgent. We're alone, the world is out there, and it can't touch us. Or at least I like to imagine it can't.

I turn my head down, catching his lips in a kiss. His fingers find my hair, pressing our mouths closer together. Nothing hurts anymore. It's like he's a drug. My tongue touches his lips, tracing the moist contours of his mouth with the interest and precision of a treasure hunter. He tastes like an odd mix of sweet chocolate and bitter coffee, plus something else I can't quite identify. It's not bad though. No, not bad at all…

His tongue pushes mine back, gripping the hair at the nape of my neck tighter. He tastes my mouth this time, but I don't mind the intrusion. Actually, I enjoy it very much.

I'm breathing heavily when he finally pulls back, a sting of saliva connecting our parted lips. His eyes are hooded, looking at my mouth before his gaze flickers up to my eyes.

I breathe a laugh. "What, do you have some weird bondage turn-on?"

He smirks. "I don't know, do you?" He gives my groin a squeeze, making me groan and squirm against the wall.

"Come on, unlock this thing…" I say, pleading with my voice and eyes. I pull on the shackle to get my point across. "I can't touch you if my hand is locked to the wall."

Mello chuckles, his fingers skimming down my cheek. "I don't know, I kind of like you better this way…"

"Bastard," I say through my teeth, although it's a weak insult. I like him…but he _is_ a bastard. Just being honest here.

He rolls his eyes. "You're so difficult sometimes."

"I think I'm being pretty easy here." My cheeks flush as I realize what I just said. "That came out wrong."

It's too late, the damage is done. A grin spreads across his lips. "Good point. I think you _like_ being shackled to the wall. Which is good, because you're going to be down here for a while."

I suddenly sober. "What?" I demand. "You have to let me out of here!"

He scoffs. "No way. I have things to do and you need to be punished."

"What do you need to do?" I demand indignantly. "And where the hell were you this morning when I got up?"

He sends me a pointed look. "I had to go see the police, my favorite people, because you called 9-1-1. Then I went to see Karen to get some stronger pain medication."

"Well," I start, flustered, "What was I _supposed_ to do?"

He shrugs. "Beats me."

Suddenly I'm angry, my cheeks flushing. "You were conscious! You could have said something when I thought you were fucking dying!"

He scowls at me. "I was in and out of consciousness. It isn't as straightforward as you're making it seem."

"Ugh!" I make a sound of irritation in my throat. "Why the fuck do you turn me on? You're a frustrating jerk! And did you break into my apartment or something? Where did you get my clothes?"

"_I _didn't break into your apartment," He replies indignantly. "I had a lot to do, so I had someone else do it."

"You can't do stuff like that!" I practically explode. "And you can't go around shackling people to walls, you cunt!"

"And you can't go around shooting people, Matt!" He snaps back.

We lock gazes, glaring, the air static with our bubbling anger. My eyes narrow, determined to win this contest, but his eyes bore into mine. Color rises steadily in my cheeks, and finally I avert my gaze, biting my lower lip. "So maybe I shouldn't have shot him," I admit, although reluctantly.

Then he _chuckles_. My eyes snap back to his face, my eyebrows furrowing. "I don't blame you, he was being a douche," He says, much to my surprise.

"Then unlock this thing!" I cry.

He smiles slightly. "No can do Matty."

I'm not above bribery. I half close my eyes, hoping that I look, you know, sexy or something. "I'll kiss you if you unlock me."

He snorts. "I can kiss you when you're shackled to the wall." He points out, smiling slightly. To prove his point he leans in, kissing my lips.

I growl, promptly biting his lip. He pulls back, rubbing his mouth with his hand, looking annoyed. What's the big deal? I didn't draw blood or anything.

"Fine, be a little bitch about it." He says, glaring at me.

I scowl. "I'm not your dog, you know." I recall the taunts that got me in this position in the first place. "You can't chain me up when I misbehave. It doesn't work like that. I'm not going to stick around if you treat me like shit."

Mello looks into my eyes then. "You don't have any place else to go." He points out, voice soft.

I fall silent. I know he's right. If I leave here, where would I go? What would I do? I'd be dead. "What are we going to do then?" I ask finally.

"We're going to win." He says in all seriousness.

"It isn't a game," I murmur.

"Everything is a game. We just have to play better than our opponent."

I frown, looking into his face. "It isn't that easy."

"Maybe you're just making it too hard." He shrugs. "We'll do it. Trust me."

Quietly, I look into those crystalline blue eyes of his. Sometimes I feel like I could learn nothing from those eyes—they're locked up tight—then I look again and it's another world. I imagine I see everything within those beautiful blue eyes. Knowledge, confidence, and love. All of it could be mine if I just look into him and never anywhere else.

"I want to believe you," I whisper.

His hand touches my cheek, swiping his finger over my stubble. He smiles a little. "Then believe me."

Like it's that simple. Maybe it is. I don't say anything, instead I just lean in, kissing him. I kiss him like he kissed me before, softly. I want to have sex with him, but this isn't about the sex, not right this second. We're going to survive this together. I don't know how, but we will.

Mello pulls back a moment later, lightly tracing my jawline with his fingertips. He smiles again, "You should really put some ice on your eye. You look awful."

I scoff, but I can't help but smile a little either. "I feel pretty awful."

"I guess we should get you out of here," He muses, producing a key from his pants pocket. He unlocks the shackle around my wrist, much to my satisfaction.

I give a sigh of contentment as my hand falls free, landing in my lap. My eyes closed, my head falling back against the wall. I'm so glad he unlocked it, but I don't know if I can stand right this moment.

I hear Mello chuckle, then feel his warm breath against my neck. He lightly kisses my skin, and I make sound in my throat. I feel his lips against my ear. "You're still sporting a hard on." He's teasing me, the jackass.

I grunt. "Shud'up. Your fault…"

He laughs again, warmth ghosting over my cheek; I have to resist a shiver. "I take full responsibility. Come on Matt."

I open my eyes when his fingers close around my wrist, pulling me up to my feet. Somehow, I end up standing. My gaze falls back to the floor, spotting the cell phone on the ground. I'd forgotten it with all the kissing. Panic rises in me, and I grab for it—but I move too fast. I'm still lightheaded, and I almost fall over but Mello catches me around the waist.

"Hold on there," He pulls me up, my back pressing into his chest.

"The-the phone!" My voice is frantic. "You broke the phone!" I could end up dead if that phone doesn't work.

"Shh," He says against my ear. "That's not the phone."

"What?" I ask, my voice cracking.

"I have the phone, safe and locked up…it'll be there when you need to call that guy."

I try to calm my pounding heart, processing what he's saying. It doesn't help my jumping pulse when his lips press against my neck. I swallow hard. "But…"

"Calm down," He murmurs. "I have things under control. Enough shit has happened that we're going to take precautions…we're going to get through this, and hopefully no one else has to get hurt."

I focus on breathing for a moment. Can I believe him? I felt like the world was falling down, but now, after he reassured me…I feel okay. Maybe things will work out. Maybe I won't have to break anymore limbs, maybe I won't get shot, beaten up, or paralyzed. Maybe everything is really just…okay.

"I trust you." I say softly. I don't know why I trust him, exactly, because I barely know him. I don't really trust anyone, but I _have_ to trust him. I can't do this by myself, so someone has to be my ally.

I feel his smile against my neck. "I know. Come on, let's get you some ice for your eye."

* * *

Mello takes me back to his room. I think we travel by an unused route in the compound, because we don't run into a single person on our way there. He probably can't let anyone know that I'm no longer locked up in their creepy dungeon. I wonder about that thug I shot, but don't ask.

He leaves me alone in the room for a while, returning after about forty minutes. He has an ice pack, a thermos of coffee, and a laptop. I had been bored out of my mind—there's nothing to do in his bedroom—so I practically pounce on the computer when he sets it on the bed.

"Whoa there," He speaks to me like I'm a child, pulling me back from the beloved laptop. My face must be a picture of devastation. He rolls his eyes. "Ice pack," He presses the cold compress into my hand. "Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off."

"I've used an ice pack before," I mumble, and press it gingerly against the side of my face.

"Yeah, I imagine you hurt yourself a lot." He says, completely serious.

"You make it sound like I'm clumsy!"

He raises an eyebrow, pausing for a whole beat before going, "Oh, are you being serious? I thought it was obvious."

I glare, which probably isn't as effective with only one eye visible. "Do you have any pain medication for me? I'm dying here."

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pill. He offers me the medicine and the thermos.

I consider commenting about pocket lint, but refrain. My arm hurts too much, and I don't want to chance having him take the medicine away. I set the ice pack down, take the pill, and swallow it with hot coffee. I sigh with contentment.

"I figured you could entertain yourself for a while," He gestures to the laptop. "I have some important business today."

I take another drink of coffee while opening the laptop with one hand. I press the power button, raising an eyebrow. "Arms shipment?" I ask, half joking.

"Drugs, actually." He smiles slightly. I can't tell if he's joking or not. "Stay in the room. If you get hungry I have some snacks in the bedside table; I'll be back in a bit. I know we have to figure something out for that chip in your neck, but you should be fine for the day. You're not talking to that guy yet, so we still have time to figure it out."

I nod, already becoming absorbed as the computer screen lights. The soft, blue glow makes me feel right at home. I abandon the coffee thermos on his bedside table, instead climbing on the bed and placing the computer on my lap. I stroke the keys idly.

Mello's scoff draws me out of my trance. "Don't have sex with it now. And don't forget your ice pack," He adds, before turning.

"Mmm," Is my only response. I see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, and he leaves me without another word.

The door shuts behind him, and I'm alone.

I nurse the coffee, a bar of chocolate, and a bag of Doritos from his snack drawer over the course of the day. I don't have anything I need to do, so I end up surfing the internet and gaming. It's surreally normal. It is harder than usual to game since I only have one useful hand, but I'm up for the challenge. I actually feel _good_. I may look like a mess, but I'm relaxed for the first time in days. I can still pwn n00bs with only one hand. Yeah, I'm that good.

Eventually, I run out of caffeine. Without a steady supply of coffee (or any kind of soda) to keep me awake, I find myself nodding off. I don't know how long I'm alone in Mello's room, but it's at least six hours—probably more. I fall asleep around the time the laptop taskbar reads midnight.

* * *

The room is dark when I'm roused from sleep. The laptop screen has gone black; apparently it when to sleep when I did. I tense instinctually because the bed shifted—that's what woke me up. My cheek is pressed into the pillow, and it aches faintly. I start to push myself up blindly in the dark. Now that I'm awake I have a fairly good idea of who's crawling into bed with me.

"Shh," His voice barely breaks the silence, and I relax a little when I feel his fingers against my hair.

I open my mouth to ask him how the day went, but he seems to know I'm about to speak; his lips silence me before I can get a word out, his tongue pressing past my parted lips and into my mouth.

I gasp faintly, taken off guard. I was half asleep, but I'm definitely awake now. In more ways than one. He presses me back into the mattress, his chest against my arm in the cast. My fingers manage to twist into his shirt.

"Mm…Mello…?" There is a note of question in my voice, but it's weak. His hips press into mine, and I inhale sharply. Warmth spreads through me, my cheeks flushing.

"Quiet," He says, his lips fluttering down to touch my collarbone. I've been without a shirt all day, something I'm glad for now.

My good hand slides down his shirt, gently tugging on the hem. My nails faintly skim the skin below his bellybutton. "Take it off," I request; my voice sounds so much louder than Mello's.

I don't know why, but I'm surprised when he pulls back and strips off his shirt. He's doing what I ask? Maybe I'm just reading too much into this. Becoming absorbed in the moment once more, my fingertips skim over the tape on his stomach; it's holding in place a large, white bandage. "Does it hurt?" I ask softly.

He leans back down, pressing a kiss to my lips. "Not when I'm in bed with you." His words make me blush, and I'm thankful for the cover of darkness. Mello continues, "How's your arm?"

"Well, it doesn't help that you're lying on it," Sheepish smile.

Mello scoffs, his hand slipping around my waist and pressing into the small of my back. I arch instinctually. In a smooth motion he rolls over, pulling me on top of him. My blush darkens as a straddle his hips, and I wonder if this is heading the direction I think it's heading.

"Better?" I can't make out the details of his face in the dark, but by his voice I know he's smirking.

"I think your hips are jabbing me," I say, making my voice sound bored to hide how embarrassed (and excited) I am. "You're so boney."

He scoffs again. "Keep talking and I'll jab you with something else." His fingers suddenly twist in my hair, dragging my head down. He stops me inches from his mouth; my lips part, quivering, exhaling a deep breath.

"And if I want you to jab me with something else?" I whisper.

"Then you should keep talking," He muses, leaning up to kiss the underside of my jaw. My eyelids flutter shut, inhaling sharply as his fingertips trace a circle around my bellybutton. My abdomen clenches, body tensing—he makes me so anxious, I can barely stand it.

"I don't know what to say," I admit, my voice trembling.

"Hm," He makes a sound against my neck, his lips leaving the skin moist. I can't help but trail my fingers down his chest, making a wide circle around his wound's dressing, finishing at his pants. "You always seem to have _something_ to say," He muses. "Where are your smart aleck remarks now?"

"I try to keep those out of the bedroom." I'm blushing again—did I ever stop?

Mello chuckles, his warm breath ghosting over my neck. "I'll keep that in mind. Now I know how you shut you up."

"Hey!" I say, insulted.

Before I can continue he rolls over again, pressing me back into the bed. My blush is extending all the way down into my chest now; I feel a little feverish. "Let's not talk anymore." I see a flash of his teeth in the dark before he ducks his head down and kisses me deeply.

I am effectively silenced, but still a little peeved. I take my anger out on his pants, almost ripping the zipper in an attempt to get them undone.

Mello breaks the kiss to pull down his pants and kick them off; the next moment my fingers are skimming across the warm, bare skin of his hips. "You're so testy." He muses, unfastening my jeans.

"Only because you make me feel so damn appreciated."

"Ah, there's the smart aleck I know and love," His tone is condescending. "For a minute there, I thought you'd gone soft on me." I'm about to retort when he reaches into my pants. I gasp when his hand closes around me, giving my erection a good pump. "Nope, still hard." Oh, he was talking about _that_.

I squirm, the fingers of my working hand flexing into the pillow beneath my head. "Mm…" I breathe, hips lifting a fraction as he strokes me again.

When my back arches he releases me, much to my chagrin, but proceeds to pull my pants down fast over my hips. With a little maneuvering they join his on the floor, and I almost moan when his bare hips press into mine. Who knew a warm body would turn me into a blushing, horny idiot? Well, it isn't just any warm body. This is Mello, after all. We're both beaten to a pulp and I still feel fucking fantastic with him on top of me.

His lips press close to my ear. "You know I'm going to fuck you, right?"

I can't help the shudder that slides down my spine, making my hips press up into his. I make a sound when we touch. "I hope you are," I say breathlessly. "Because if you don't I'm going to be fucking pissed."

He laughs softy, pulling our lips back together. I'm quickly absorbed back into the kiss, the urgency becoming almost too much to bear. Our tongues press back and forth, tasting and demanding, each of us trying to gain the upper hand. I like to think that I'm winning, although he's probably thinking the same thing about himself.

I'm gasping for air when he finally breaks away. He leans over to open his beside table drawer and pushes aside the snacks I didn't eat. I watch with hooded eyes as he produces a tube—I can't make out what it says on it through the darkness, but I can guess. It looks like a toothpaste tube but I doubt what's in there will fight plaque and bad breath.

"This is probably the worst timing ever," I mumble, half to myself. I reach above me to gently clench the headboard with my good hand. "Didn't you just get stabbed like…" I have to think about for a moment, my eyebrows furrowing. "Was it yesterday?"

Mello shrugs, taking the tube's cap between his teeth and pulling it off. He spits it out, and I think it lands on the floor. "Trust me, I'm on enough pain medication to tranquilize a horse." I watch, mesmerized as he squeezes lube onto his fingers, rubbing it between the pad of his thumb and pointer finger.

"Ha," I breathe, licking my lips. "It's weird how sexy you are."

He scoffs loudly. "Don't act so surprised." His hand not slick with lube hooks under my thigh, and somehow my knee ends up resting over his shoulder. His fingers skim down the underside of my leg, making me squirm. My hips, already lifted slightly off the bed, arch up. "Obviously you've wanted this since we met."

His fingers rub against a very sensitive place and I groan softly, my hand grasping the headboard tighter. "Don't…give yourself so much credit." I say breathlessly. So much for keeping smart aleck remarks out of the bedroom.

"It's cute when you try to play the tough guy," He muses. "I almost believe it."

Then he presses a finger inside of me, and I can't find words. "Mm…" My head rolls to the side, pressing into the pillow. My lips part, panting faintly as he probes my insides. It's dirty, it's sinful, and I love it.

Mello leans forward; my knee is dragged up, folding closer to my chest, exposing a good amount of my backside to him. His lips touch my shoulder. "It's sexy when you get all hot and bothered," He chuckles, kissing along my collarbone.

I can't even comprehend if that's a compliment—then I feel like my head is going to explode when he adds another finger. My hand moves from the headboard to fist into his hair, twisting the blonde locks that thread through my fingers. "Ah!" I gasp. "Mello, please…" While his fingers stretching me feel amazing, I want more.

Just like that, his hand is gone. I whimper at the loss, but his lips touch mine firmly, quieting me. I can't see what he's doing, but he's maneuvering the lube easily with his lips sealed against mine. I kiss him blindly, groping his hair to bring him closer.

His tongue shoves past my lips just as his hips thrust—he didn't even warn me before tearing me open, entering me in one smooth motion. I yell out, but the sound is lost in his mouth. I turn my head to the side, gasping for air. "_Shit_!" My voice is hoarse. "You could have _said_ something before—" My voice catches as his hips move. "Ooh…" I breathe, my eyelids becoming heavy.

He smirks. "Whore," It's an affectionate term from his lips. Our hips start to grind slowly; I'm still acclimating, but warm shivers of pleasure are inching up my spine. My back arches.

"Mm," I press his head down against my neck, "Bastard," I say, voice breathy. He bucks his hips, our skin slapping together—my head falls back as I moan. When I find my voice again I hiss, "Fucker," meanwhile licking my lips.

"You love it." Much to my delight, he sounds breathless.

"Ha," I bite my lip, wiggling my hips. "I do," I whisper into his ear.

I know this is exactly what he wanted to hear. His hands grip my hips, and the real fun starts. I can barely stand it; he fucks me hard enough that I'll have bruises on my ass and hips tomorrow, and just when I'm quivering and moaning and I feel like I'm about to explode he slows down to a crawl, touching the deepest, most intimate parts of my body. I'm feel like I'm going crazy.

His fingers trail over my slick abdomen as our bodies meet again and again. His touch makes the muscles under my skin tremble. My mouth has long since fallen open, gasping for air, my eyes pinched closed. When his hand closes around my erection, my hips buck.

I don't last long after that. The urgency, the anticipation, the passion, it all becomes too much. My nails dig into his back, moaning loudly as I come on our stomachs. My entire body is flooded with white hot pleasure, the orgasm pulsing through me in waves. I'm shaking. I can't stop shaking.

I hear him moan against my neck, but it's like I'm listening through a tunnel—I'm so far gone. Two more thrusts from his hips and a warmth blossoms inside of me, tickling my insides and making me squirm. I make another sound, pulling him closer. He all but collapses on top of me.

Neither of us moves for what's probably a good five minutes. It takes me that long to catch my breath; I can hear—and feel—each time he exhales against my neck. I'm so weak, I doubt I can move.

Mello's fingertips trace idle patterns on my hip, finally allowing my leg to slide off of his shoulder. I groan, slowly stretching it out. I hear my knee pop.

"You weren't half bad," He says finally, letting out a soft chuckle. His voice is deep and husky, and it makes me feel warm.

"Mm, and you were only half good." My fingers gently massage his scalp.

He laughs again, kissing my neck. "You good?" He asks.

I smile faintly. "You're kind of lying on my arm again."

Mello scoffs, taking hold of me and gently rolling us over. I sigh as I settle onto his chest, resting my uninjured cheek against his shoulder. "Much better," I approve.

"You're so picky," He muses.

"Shut up, I'm tired."

"Demanding too." His arms wrap around my waist.

"Tell me if I'm hurting your stomach," I add.

"Mmhm."

My eyes flutter closed, letting out an exhausted breath. I slept most of the evening, but he wore me out again. Damn him. Oh well, I guess I'll just sleep some more.

* * *

_AN: Happy holidays my lovely readers! I know it's been a while; I'm sorry I haven't updated in a timely manner! I hope this chapter makes up for my absence. I was dealing with finals and wrapping up this semester of college, but now I'm done and I have a nice long break ahead of me! I hope to write a lot in the coming weeks, so keep an eye out for other fun things. I will be working on the next chapter of For Hire, (which definitely won't be too far off!) but I have some fun treats in store for all of you as well! Be sure to add me to your author alerts list if you haven't already. =)_

_So many fun things happened in this chapter, it was great to write! These chapters are obviously focusing more on the internal affairs of Matt and Mello, but keep the outside plot in the back of your mind. =) That'll be lurking around here soon. I know some of you may be wondering why Mello isn't acting more urgent, and why he offered up his real name like that; keep in mind that this is a different universe and the situation is quite different. To our knowledge there is no Kira, so their current position doesn't feel quite as critical. Additionally, there are a lot of reasons that Mello could want to gain Matt's trust. Just a few things to think about, I don't want to talk too much, haha!_

_So, how about that fun scene? ;D Don't forget to hit the review button on your way out, and take a Christmas cookie with you! Thanks guys, I appreciate the continued support!_


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